


Wander

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But it's not just this April she hates. It's the last and the last and the last. Almost since he's been with her, though not quite."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stillness in April

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after The Squab and The Quail. Basically mildly AU from there, as it can't accommodate either Human Factor or Watershed. The first line of the story came to me on the train one day. I didn't think it would really go anywhere. Then someone sent me an anonymous prompt and it came together into this.

  


She wonders when she started hating April.

There's not much to love about _this_ April, cold and rainy as it is. Not much to love at all, with its grey, too-long days and shadows that hardly seem like the work of the sun. With the early green shoots huddling close to the ground like they don't know quite where they are or why. She knows the feeling.

She bobs in and out of uneasy sleep. She counts the car horns drifting up from Broome. She lies beside him, staring up at the ceiling and not quite touching him. She ignores the clock. She knows how those early signs of life feel.

But it's not just this April she hates. It's the last and the last and the last. Almost since he's been with her, though not quite. The first April there was . . . _something._

For her at least. Something. Cracks he made in her careful armor and a painful kind of opening up. Unstoppable, no matter how she dug her heels and told herself—told him—that she hated him. That first April, there was him and something beyond work and a door closed tightly against the past.

For him, too. A stubborn voice pipes up and says there was something that first April that changed him. Something that gave lie to the cynical ass he was hell-bent on looking like. Hell-bent on making himself into, maybe.

That first April there was something. Potential for something that they wasted. Both of them, though it took her too long to see it that way. To see that, yes, he broke her trust, but she was waiting for it. Not that, exactly, but her exit. And May came and with it the realization that she wasn't glad to be rid of him after all. Whatever else she was then, she wasn't glad.

Lying in the dark like this, that feels like the best April they've had. That first one. With no one between them and every moment so full of that energy. _Potential._ The two of them sparking off one another, hard and bright and angry sometimes. Angry a lot of the time, but so close to something else. Something just the other side of anger that she hadn't felt in years.

She wonders. Even now, lying next to him with his hand splayed out and reaching. Reaching for her hip and just falling short, she wonders if they'd be better off if that May had never come. She wonders what it would have been like to tumble into bed with him just the other side of anger. Where they might be now if they'd realized that potential.

It's an illusion, though. A fantasy refracted through every April since then. Through a white lie and bad timing. Up and out from the bottom of the rabbit hole with a bullet in her chest and _I love you_ echoing all around her. Around every hollow place inside her.

It wouldn't have lasted. It couldn't have. And she doesn't even know. Maybe there was someone between them that first April. Half a dozen someones for all she really knows. She's never been exactly sure about fact and fiction when it comes to that version of him.

It's an illusion. She didn't know him that first April, and whatever happens—what ever has happened or will–she wouldn't give up knowing him. She wouldn't give up the chance to know the kind of father and son and friend and partner he is. What kind of man he really is.

She wouldn't trade knowing him and the last eleven months for some imagined April, no matter how much she wonders. No matter how worried she is now. No matter how much she hates this April.

It's not the worst of them. It's not the worst April. Last year . . .

She still can't think about it. It's too much. It all hurts too much even now.

The blonde behind the wheel of his Ferrari and the smell of her on him. Heavy velvet and make up thick on her skin and work without him. Life without him and everything jarring and cold and painful. The way he looked at her that April. Hurt and anger cycling back and forth. Each one the worst possible thing at any given moment.

She still can't think about it. And she can't stop thinking about it.

Because this isn't that bad. However they're screwing up. This isn't that bad.

They're here. She's here and he's warm beside her, breathing night after night after night.

They're here.

She turns toward him. She eases on to her side and her fingers creep across dark expanse of the sheets to find his.

His eyes flick open on contact, startling blue that's visible even in the darkness. It takes her breath away in more ways than one.

He closes his fingers around hers and regards her silently.

She thinks she'll speak. She thinks she'll be the one to break the silence, but it's hard. She has a lot to say, but this is the closest it's been to easy lately.

He's erratic these days. Everything is . . . big. Dramatic. He keeps making these over-the-top gestures and it all feels a little desperate and it's not what she wants. It's not what she meant . . .

So it's grand gestures and she tries to smile and he sees it. The effort she's making. That she has to make it and his face falls and he's withdrawn. He's quiet and brooding and snapping at everyone but her. And that's an effort. _His_ effort.

She sees it and it throws her off balance, because they _snap_ at each other. They always have and being together hasn't really changed that. It hadn't anyway and she finds that—she _found_ that—reassuring. A welcome tether to all the things they've always been to one another and she hates how . . . cautious he's being with her.

She wants to tell him all that. She wants to tell him _any_ of that. Something. A start on the conversation. But it's hard when it hasn't been like this in weeks. When there's stillness and nothing more complicated than a point of contact. When it's the closest to easy they've come in a while.

His thumb circles the back of her hand. He watches like he's curious. LIke it doesn't belong to him. Like it's someone else's.

She thinks it will be her, but it's him in the end who speaks. There's one false start, then another and he raises his eyes to hers again and doesn't say what he wants to say. Whatever that is, he doesn't say it.

"Not sleeping?"

It's clear and quiet. He wasn't, either. He wasn't sleeping.

She opens her mouth and closes it. She doesn't say what she wants to say.

"Having trouble."

He hesitates. Waits to see if she'll go on. So does she. She waits to see.

But she doesn't go on. Because it's still and dark and closer to easy than things have been lately. Closer to easy than things have been a few weeks and it's the middle of the night and they're here. They're here and it can't be that bad.

She doesn't go on.

He nods and lifts his arm. She ducks into his body. Her chin settles into the hollow of his shoulder and the rasp of his cheek against her temple is welcome relief.

"Me too," he says and it barely stirs the air between them. "Having trouble, too."

* * *

It's the the worst kind of lie. And the best.

He opens his arms to her and she comes to him without a second thought. They fit together perfectly and he can't believe anything is wrong in a moment like this. His hand strokes down her spine and hers trails over his his chest and he feels all the worry spin out and away and dissolve into nothing. Nothing but her and him and stillness. He can't believe anything is wrong.

But it is. There is. Something is wrong. Maybe lots of things for all he knows.

It's not a lot. All he knows doesn't feel like a lot lately. When it's not this kind of moment. When they're not telling each other the worst kind of lie. The best kind of lie.

He's happy.

That's not a lie. That's his constant. The thing he knows that no matter what kind of moment it is. When they're fighting. When she's withdrawn. When she's stubborn and exacting and he can't let it go. He can't stop needling her and they blow up at each other. He's happy and that doesn't change.

He's been happy before.

He's a father and that's a joy like nothing else. It's always made him happy enough that he almost feels guilty. Guilty that he's had the means to give Alexis the childhood he wanted for her. That she's wonderful and they've always been close and it's been easy. It's made him happy.

And he's successful. He's good at what he does, and even if a part of him keeps waiting to be knocked down—waiting to fall—he's had twenty years of doing what he loves. He's good at it, but he's also been lucky. Luckier than so many and he still loves it. When the page is blank and the hours tick by with nothing to show for it, he still loves it and he's happy.

He's been happy before. He's been happy all along. Most of his adult life, he's been happy enough. But he's never been happy like this. Never like this.

She's amazing. _Amazing._

He knew that. She's smart and articulate and passionate and he knew that. He knew that within ten minutes of first meeting her.

But she's _funny_ and imaginative and sentimental. She's curious and kind of annoyingly well read. Cultured and knowledgable and a nerd and he's never loved talking with anyone as much as he loves talking with her.

She's deliberate. She's intentional and mindful about life in ways she doesn't let on. Not to everyone. Maybe not to anyone but him and the very thought of that—the very thought that there's so much of her she's never shown to anyone else—fills in all these cracks and hollows inside him that he forgot he had. Or maybe he never knew about them. Maybe he never realized there was more of him to find until her.

It's cliché—it's _so_ fucking cliché—but she challenges him and she is _so_ out of his league in so many ways, but she makes him more. She makes him . . . aspire to her.

He's happy like never before. He's been _so_ happy this last year.

Not quite a year.

That looms. Not the date alone—not just a year after the storm—but the season, too. This time of year. Spring always hangs heavy on them. Too many painful turning points and missed opportunities and time wasted trying to live some other way.

Without her.

Without each other.

Something quiet and small and tough and defensive insists on that. Because she's no better at it than he is. They've both made a mess of themselves—a mess of others—trying to go without. Trying to go on some other way. Without one another.

But it's almost a year now since the last gasp of that fantasy.

Almost a year. It looms large, and he could strangle his mother for getting into his head like that.

Like it's all or nothing. Like it's a ring and the next step and the next or he can't be sure of her. She can't be sure of him.

But he feels sure now. With her chin tucked between his shoulder and his jaw and her fingers playing over his ribs. These last few weeks have been hard, but in the stillness, he's sure.

He wants to tell her that. He wants to tell her that he's absolutely sure of her. About her. About them.

He wants to tell her, even though it's no way to start the conversation. It's ten steps further on from where he should start. Or maybe it's way behind. He doesn't know. He doesn't _know._

She's not happy.

She's not _un_ happy. He doesn't think it's that bad. But she's trying all the time. These last few weeks she's been struggling to be something he thinks she thinks is normal. Typical or usual or like she's always been with him, but she's _trying_ so hard all the time. She has her company manners on and she's careful like she's afraid they'll break.

Like she isn't sure.

Like she can't be sure of him, and his mind circles back to rings and his mother and everything he doesn't know.

But it's not like that now. Not right now, when she's curved into him, satisfied and seeking and still. She's not careful and the moment feels so sure that he wants to wrap his hands around it. He wants to make fists and hold tight to it so he'll remember what it feels like when it's morning and she's trying again.

He wants to tell her about it.

He starts to. Her name slips past his lips and she stirs.

She pulls back a little to look at him and he misses her already. He misses her lips against his skin, just resting. Just still.

He tips his head down and her eyes are huge and heavy at the same time. Her lashes drift down and up again and she smiles, sleepy and unguarded, and the words won't come.

The ones he was thinking of won't come, but he hears himself whispering. Asking if he she can sleep a little.

"Think so," she murmurs and her lashes are barely flickering now. "Less trouble."

"Good." He strokes her hair back from her face and tries to hold on to this feeling of ease. He tries to hold on to the stillness. "Less trouble is good."

* * *

She wakes up with her face plastered against his chest and her hand fisted around his t-shirt. She's too hot and she can feel sweaty creases carved into her cheek, but she feels that middle-of-the-night stillness settled in the center of her chest. And when he smiles down at her, open and uncalculating and far from really awake, she knows where she is and why.

His eyes drop closed as soon as she's worked her way free of his arms and the sheets and he mumbles her name. He struggles with the tangle of blankets and she rights them. Her wrists flick and the layers of rich fabric catch air and settle over his body and he gives a sigh of complete contentment. She can see how exhausted he is, then. He stirs again and she drops to the edge of the bed. She pins the covers down and his eyes flutter half open. He fixes her with a cross look.

She laughs and leans in to brush a kiss against his forehead. "Sleep, Castle."

"You're going to work," he mumbles and tries to make his hands do what he wants them to do. Not that he seems exactly sure what that is.

"Yeah, but you sleep." She rests her palm against his cheek. Lends him weight and he sinks back into the pillows.

"I'll miss you if you go." There's a three-second delay, then he hears himself and winces. It's not the kind of thing he lets himself say.

It's not the kind of thing she lets him say, is it?

"I know." She strokes her thumb over the corner of his mouth before he can take it back. She doesn't want him to take it back. She doesn't want him to be so careful.

His eyes make it most of the way open then. He's surprised and pleased and they move a little closer to easy.

His mouth is a soft, unthinking curve and he turns his head to kiss her palm. "Bring you lunch?"

"If you're up," she says. Teasing with an edge of concern. He looks exhausted.

"Bring you lunch," he snaps. Tries to snap, but his tongue is clumsy and his eyes just won't stay open.

She laughs down at him and tucks the blankets around his shoulders. "Yes. Bring me lunch, Castle. I insist."

"Bossy," he mutters and falls back into sleep.

  



	2. Better, Though I Wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some references to Significant Others (5 x 10) and A Chill Goes Through Her Veins (1 x 05) as well as Cloudy With A Chance of Murder (5 x 02).

 

It’s better after the stillness. 

After one night just being still and the next morning when she leaves and he sleeps in. 

He brings lunch and he's a little late. He's not entirely put together. A shirt without buttons, and he's managed to miss a patch of stubble on his jaw. The same spot he always misses when he's in a hurry.

She wonders if he just woke up. She searches around his eyes for the tired lines and wishes he’d have just skipped today. She feels it bunching up in her throat. Annoyance and worry. At him and about him and for him. 

But then she sees the bags his arms are loaded down with and it’s gone. 

It's lunch for all of them. The team, and that’s not just about the two of them hiding in plain sight. It’s for the team, but it’s hot dogs from the place she likes, and that's really why he's late. It's more of a trek. It's out of the way and always crowded, but he made the effort and the tight feeling in her throat is gone.

He sets the boys' usual orders out on their desks and asks where they are. He chatters and starts moving things around on the corner of hers closest to his chair. He’s clearing space. Careful to keep her piles separate and in order as he makes space for the spread. 

She lays a hand on his wrist to stop him. His head snaps up. He looks wary and a little resigned. But she smiles and she doesn't have to try.

He blinks once, but doesn’t miss a beat. He smiles back. 

"Missed you as soon as you left,” he says in a low voice, just for her. Just for her. 

“You were asleep _before_ I left,” she retorts. 

“Still missed you.” He shrugs and turns back to the work at hand, but she curls her fingers around his wrist and tugs him toward the stairwell. 

He raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t argue. He lets her take the bags from him. He lets her pull him down with her. They sit side by side on the bottom step and she steals his fries and won't touch the ones he got for her.

"I never get fries," she insists as she reaches for another. Another one of his. She gives him a look that says she dares him—she _dares_ him—to slap her hand away.

"Because you always have mine," he pouts.

"Always?" she shoots back and all of a sudden the air is heavy between them.

The cheeky grin dies on her lips and her face goes up in flames, but he leans in quickly. He chases it. The grin and the moment and the question she didn’t mean to ask. He chases.

He kisses her and she lets him, even though he’s had relish. She hates relish, and usually there are rules about that. 

"As long as you want them," he says softly. 

He kisses her and she lets him. 

 

 

* * *

It’s better after the stillness. 

Things are easier between them. Closer to easy, anyway, and she’s frustrated with herself for how it’s been the last few weeks. For how they let it get. 

She’s frustrated that she let Vaughn get in her head. That she let Meredith do the same a few months ago. She thinks that’s where this started. That sucks. It’s such a goddamned cliché, and it just _sucks_. Because she thought she’d been doing well. _They’d_ been doing well. 

She’d had a moment when the door closed and Meredith’s perfume still hung heavy in the air. There’s no point in denying that. She’d had a moment. She’d rocked back on her heels and stood there, unanchored and wondering if she knew him at all. After all this time, if she knew anything about him. 

And the answer wouldn’t come. Not at first. Not right away and not all at once. Not until she looked for it. Not until she did the work. So she rolled up her sleeves and searched out the things she knows.  

She _does_ know him, even though it’s not easy. He’s not easy to know. That much is true and it’s a surprise, but not a new one. It’s not something she needed Meredith to tell her. 

She’s known for years. The way he runs his mouth and never says anything about himself. The way it seems like he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve, but he damned near impenetrable when it really matters. 

But for all that, she knows him. She’s gotten to know him and he’s let her get to know him even though it scares him. Even though he still worries that the next thing she finds out will be the one she can’t live with. 

She knows him. 

She knows why he writes and how insecure he is underneath all the ego. That he lives with the fear every day and every night that he’ll sit down one day and it will be gone. Every last word will be gone. 

She knows that he’s shy in his own way. That he has this huge personality and he loves people, but at a distance. 

She knows that all the arm’s length examination and unraveling he does might be the writer at work, but it’s also the way a lonely little boy learned to live in temporary worlds. Theaters and boarding schools that lasted a season or a year. A cast of thousands, but acquaintances, mostly, with real friends and real connections few and far between. 

She knows it’s still like that. That being part of the team and having the boys—having _her_ —is something he’s not really used to. That he loves the rough handling—the insults and the way they don’t hesitate to call bullshit on each other—but it’s hard on him, too, because he’s never had friends like that and he still worries he’s on the outside looking in. That he always will be. 

She knows he clings so tightly to Alexis because she’s the only constant in his life and he ties himself in knots about what kind of father he is. That he loves his mother fiercely and depends on her. That he’s proud of the relationship they’ve been able to build, but part of him is always waiting for her to let him down.  

She knows him and it doesn’t matter what he tells her and what she’s had to find out for herself, because that’s how people work. That’s how _she_ works, and she knows him all the same and she feels like she shouldn’t have to ask.  

She shouldn’t. She’s knows him. She’s sure of him and she hates that she hesitated when Vaughn asked. 

She feels like she should already know. Like it should be clear and not need saying out loud. It’s part of the reason she can’t seem to just come out with it. Part, but not all of it. 

She wonders what would happen if she did ask. She wonders what would happen, because she doesn’t have an answer for herself. She doesn’t even really have a question.

_Where are we going?_

That’s it. She supposes that’s the question, and there’s not a lot more to it. She doesn’t know how _she’d_ answer it. She doesn’t even know how she wants him to answer it. Not really. 

But it’s there. The question is there or one a lot like it. One that might make more sense if she knew what how much of it was already there—already on her mind—and how much of it she’d let in.  

She’s frustrated with that, too. That it’s not _just_ them in her head. That whatever agenda Vaughn might have had, whatever Meredith might have really wanted—however much either of them might have been _trying_ to get into her head—it’s not just them. She’s frustrated to know that the things they said would never have taken hold if there weren’t _something_ there in the first place. Some worry of hers. 

She thinks maybe she should be proud of that in some twisted way. Proud of the fact that at least she’s not letting _everything_ in any more. She’s not scouring every moment for cautionary tales she should take to heart. For reasons why this is a bad idea. For the writing on the wall and evidence that he’ll let her down. That all their secrets will weight them down and they’ll implode. That he’ll break her heart. 

So, yes, she’s proud. She’s a little proud that she’s at least past fixating on the cover story of a lying killer. Past expecting the implosion around every corner. 

But it’s hard to proud when it’s a simple question. It’s a simple question, but she opens her mouth and she can’t make the words come out. It’s hard to be proud when she doesn’t know what she’s afraid of or what she wants the answer to be. His or hers. 

Miles Haxton might not be in her head, but he’s on her mind, because she _is_ proud of that. The way she said what she wanted and he said yes and relief just shot through her because he wanted it, too. His face lit up and he stepped closer to her and she knew it was exactly what he wanted, too. The two of them and no one else between them anymore. No one else between them after all this time. 

She’s proud of that. All the more because he was an idiot and so was she and they stumbled into the conversation tongue-tied and backwards and it was so _them._ Clumsy and harder than it needed to be. Hard won by the two of them together, but it feels all the more solid for that. It’s as reassuring to her as the fact that they still snap at each other. 

They do. That they go back to snapping at each other after that morning. After the stillness, it’s the closest they’ve come to it yet. Hot dogs and a stolen moment in a stairwell and it’s the closest they’ve come to a real conversation about it. 

But it’s better somehow. It rights them or at least nudges them back toward center. They go back to snapping at each other afterward, and she’s glad. 

She’s proud of that. The way they hold on to the things that define them and move forward.   

It's better than it has been. 

But this—now—is more complicated. She still hates the taste of that on her tongue. Those words. They taste like a long year without him. They taste like last April and the pitying smirk behind Vaughn’s eyes when she let them slip out. 

But it’s true. However much she hates the taste, it’s true. Where they go from here—almost a year on—is more complicated. 

A year. Four years. Five. All that time and the weight of expectation and she wishes everyone would just shut up. She wishes she couldn’t feel everyone’s assumptions and suspicions and surprise and _I-told-you-sos_ crowding in on her. 

She wishes Lanie would keep her speculation to herself and her father would stop asking if things are “. . . good” between them, pause and all. She wishes that Alexis weren’t so polite and wary and Martha didn’t sneak the world’s least surreptitious peeks at her left hand every time the two of them came back from anything more upscale than burgers at Remy’s.  

She’s not expecting . . . _that_. It’s not what this is about or what she wants. 

But it’s not what she doesn’t want either. 

She doesn’t _not_ expect it. 

She worries and she hopes and she just doesn’t _know_ how she feels about . . . _that._

And she hates the inevitability of it. Not _it._ Not _that_ itself. But the assumption. That it must be next and it must be soon, because it’s been a year. It’s been four years. And if it’s not soon then, well. _Well._  

She doesn’t feel that way. She doesn’t _think_ she feels that way, but how can she tell? How can she tell with everyone else clamoring in her head?  

She hates that it’s not just the two of them finding their way and figuring out what comes next. Even if they’re bad at it. Even if they’ll stumble and hurt each other more than they need to, she hates that it’s not just them. Kate and Rick. 

But it’s not just them. It’s not Kate and Rick. It’s Beckett and Castle. Her damage and his reputation and everyone on the sidelines and she hates that. She hates all the tortured things that crowd into her head. About what she wants and expects and doesn’t want and doesn’t expect and doesn’t _not_ want and doesn’t _not_ expect. 

She hates the way it all stops her mouth and she can’t get them any closer to the conversation than they got in the stairwell the day after. 

And even though it’s better, she hates that she can’t bring herself to ask. She hates that she doesn’t know what answer she wants or what answer she’d give. She doesn’t even really know what the question is. 

_Where are we going?_

* * *

 

It’s better after the stillness. But it’s not good and it used to be. It was before and he didn’t imagine that. It wasn’t just him being deluded. 

Before Vaughn. Before his mother got into his head. Before he started overdoing it and she started trying all the time, things were good. 

It’s better now. She asked, though she didn’t mean to. He answered, though not the way he wanted. And it’s been better. Subtext and a bag of french fries and, God help them, it’s been better. 

But it’s not good and he has it in his head now that it won’t be until he asks.  

It’s not that he doesn’t want to ask. It’s not that he doesn’t want to buy her a ring. It’s not that he doesn’t want to plan something big and intimate and perfect and just _ask_. 

It’s not that his heart doesn’t pound when he thinks about it. Her hand in his and the perfect weight of it. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to ask.  

It’s that he does. 

It’s that he’s wanted to from the minute she pressed his fingers—their fingers together— against her scar. 

It’s the fact that he’s wanted to since long before that. Before they were even together. Before it even seemed possible that they’d _ever_ be together, he’s wanted it. 

He remembers the exact moment. The very first time he thought about asking. 

He was needling her. Of course he was needling her, but she walked right into it. 

_I’m not judging her. Some people love the institution, hate the day-to-day._

_Are you one of those people, Castle?_

_I guess I just haven’t met the right girl_. 

He was just a few weeks into knowing her then, and he felt like he’d never know her at all. So he was needling her. He pushed her buttons all the time and every once in a while she let things slip. 

He was just needling her, and then he wasn’t. In a sudden rush, it wasn’t that at all. Then it was stupid. Even for him, it was _stupid,_ but he wanted to ask. Just to see what she’d  say. 

And then not just to see. With his heart was thumping in his chest, he knew it wasn’t just to see. He really wanted to ask. He wanted her to say yes. However stupid it was, he wanted to make happen. To make it happen right then and see where it went.  

He hasn’t stopped wanting it since then. Not really. Not when she sent him away the first time. Not when he was with Gina and she was with Demming and then she wasn’t with Demming and she _was_ with Josh. And he was with Gina and not with Gina all at the same time. Not when she left him for so long. 

He’s never stopped picturing it. He’s never stopped wanting to ask, and his heart pounds every time he thinks about it. 

He wants to ask, and that’s the problem. 

The problem is he’s almost asked a dozen times in the last year. More than that. Ring or no ring, he’s almost asked so many times. In quiet moments in the middle of the night. In the frantic aftermath of explosions and bullets whizzing right by them when it just seems so stupid _not_ to ask. Loud moments on the street when she laughs at him or shoots him that pissed off look that’s just for him. 

He wants to the ask in the stillness. To the sound of her breath keeping time with his. He wants to ask in the everyday moments to the sound of New York traffic blaring around them or the busy murmur of the bullpen. He wants to ask at the top of a ski slope or down at their beach in the Hamptons with the ocean lapping at their toes. 

He wants to ask. 

He _loves_ to ask. 

That’s not exactly something to be proud of, but he’s always loved it. 

He loves the rush of it. The heady, full-tilt romance. He loves being in love. He burns hot and bright with it. He always has, and it’s always seemed like asking is the only thing big enough to show the world. To take the light and heat and turn it outward. To ask.

He wants to ask her now. But he’s wanted to ask her for a long time. And he’s always loved to ask. 

He’s worried that they’re the same thing. That all three are tangled up in the same thing and they can’t be. It’s too important. _She’s_ too important and when he asks—if he asks—he wants it to be like nothing ever before. For him or for her.

Not just the event. Not just _asking_ , though that, too. That should be like nothing ever before. However he does it. Whenever he does it. If he does it. 

But not just asking. What it means. That should be like nothing ever before. It has to be. 

He doesn’t want to ask just because it’s the next thing. Because he’s supposed to and people expect it and they whisper and smirk and warn. Because all that’s a little more out in the open every day that passes and he doesn’t ask.  Every day, more people warn her. They warn _him_ and he hates it. 

He doesn’t want to ask just because he can’t think what else to do. 

Because he feels so much for her— _so_ much—and he can never find the words when it comes to that. He almost chokes on the irony, but it’s true. He’s never been able to find the words with her, and asking can’t just be some kind of Hail Mary to make up for that. He doesn’t want it to be. 

He doesn’t want to ask because it’s always been the beginning of the end. However full his heart was and however hot and bright he burned, it’s always been the beginning of the end. He can’t bear the thought of that with her. He never wants it to end, and if that means never asking, he’ll think of something else.  

 _They’ll_ think of something else. The two of them together. 

That’s what he wants. That’s how it should be, and he feels like a coward because he can’t even say that. He doesn’t even know how to start. 

He doesn’t know how to start, so he lets the lie pull them along. The illusion that things are ok and he doesn’t have to decide what comes next. That they’re sure of each other. Sure enough for now and things are better. 

They _are_ better. 

Ever since the night she let him hold her and she slept. Since she tucked him in and told him to sleep and let him bring her lunch. Since they sat in the stairwell together and ate hot dogs and she kissed him in spite of the relish. 

It’s better and it’s so tempting to just let things be. 

She smiles now and it’s not work. She rolls her eyes and snipes at him when he does something and overshoots the mark. When it’s too big and too much and no way to make up for the times when he’s clueless and self-absorbed and a pain in the ass. She calls him on it and sometimes she lets herself be charmed and she’s not trying too hard all the time. 

Sometimes she is, but not all the time and it’s a relief. It’s a relief, and he half thinks he can just sit back and let things unfold. He half thinks he _should_ do that. Because things are better and why mess with that? Why not just let things be?

Because they’re better, but they’re not ok. 

Because better isn’t good enough. 

 


	3. Not in Our Stars

  


* * *

The sun is barely up and he's heading for her doorstep on a whim.

Not a whim.

He misses her.

That's why he's stumbling through the slowly waking New York streets. That's why he's headed for her doorstep.

He misses her and that's what he'll say. He shoves down the lame excuse he came up with. Half asleep and still buttoning his cuffs, he'd come up with something. It's not great. That's an understatement. It's bad enough that he keeps forgetting it.

And anyway, he just misses her.

He decides it's too early for a cab. Even Eduardo's mojo won't get him one any time soon, and he's impatient.

He misses her. He eats up squares of sidewalk in long, clumsy strides and worries about his hair. He can't remember if he checked the mirror before he left. He hopes it at least looks deliberate. He thinks about ducking into a drugstore or something. Someplace with a security mirror, a rack of sunglasses—anything. But he knows he's stalling.

He's rushing and stalling at the same time, even though he misses her and he's prepared to just say that. Mostly prepared. He's not sure how welcome he'll be. But he misses her and he'll risk it.

_Socks._ That was it. He cringes and registers that he's had the green for long enough that the little red man is flashing now. He sets his jaw and refuses to take it as an omen. He heads out into the intersection and jumps back a second later, barely clearing the path of an oncoming bike messenger who's just blown the light. He tells himself that's not an omen either.

_Socks_. That's the excuse that gave him permission to take the turn toward her place. Away from where he needs to end up not all that long from now, even though it's early. _Early_ early _._ Not just early for him.

_Lucky_ socks he'd left in his drawer. He'd had some story for why he needed _those_ socks in particular. Why they're lucky. He'd had something for it a minute ago, but it's gone. It's not like she'd believe it anyway. Not that it matters whether she would or not when he forgets again the next second.

He thinks of it as his drawer and he can't remember much of anything then. _His._ The space she gave him in the heart of her own.

He misses her and that's what he'll say. And not just because his excuse is lame enough—because he's worn out and frazzled enough—that he keeps forgetting it. He'll say it because it's true.

It's only been a couple of days. He thinks so, anyway. If the pile of cast-off clothes by the bedside and the amount of trouble he had shaving are anything to go by, it's only been a couple of days. Maybe only one night? She'll give him hell if it's only been one night, but he doesn't care. He misses her.

There's a concentrated ache just under his left ribs. He stayed put as long as he could once it broke through. Once it sent him stumbling from the office into the dark recess of his room and he realized with a start that the bed was cold and empty. Once the clock told him it was well past late and hadn't quite made it to early, he made himself sit and watch the sun spread across the office floor until something like a decent hour.

He's been writing and she knows how he is. She's good about it. She teases him about _real work._ She hums "Money for Nothing" while she gets ready in the morning and laughs when she catches him absent-mindedly singing "chicks for free" under his breath.

She ignores the pointed sighs and the way he paces the loft with the ties of his open robe trailing pathetically along behind him. She pays no mind to his wide-eyed muttering as he tries to scrabble his way out of whatever corner he's written himself into. She won't engage.

She won't stand for him taking himself too seriously, and she has no patience for his melodramatics when he's in a real rut. But she's good about it when he's writing.

She deals with how he gets, and it's not a thing between them. She gets that he just disappears into it and she doesn't hold it against him. She calls him on his bullshit, but it's not ammunition she stockpiles. She's good about it.

She stays sometimes. She hangs around and food shows up at his elbow. She'll coax him to bed—she'll order him when she has to—when she decides that it's been enough hours in a row.

She lets him stay if it comes crashing over him at her place. The need to write.

That happens more and more. More and more over the last year. More and more lately.

He's fascinated by her space, and lately it's a breakthrough. She's been letting him in for months, but all of a sudden all these things strike him and he has to write. He has to capture and document and all these things in his mind.

He sees everything like it's new. The way she arranges her space and the hundreds of touchstones and fetishes she fills it with. The hollows and niches with their splashes of color and texture. Things to touch and drink in. He's fascinated by all the sides of her he gets to see now—all the spaces she inhabits—and it fills the well. He has to write.

Nikki is better than ever for it, but it doesn't end there. He's behind on the latest book, but not because he's not writing. Because he _is_.

Because when he sits down to write it's Nikki and half a dozen new paths he strikes out on. Some of them circle back. Sometimes it comes back to _this_ book. Character or plot or detail for here and now and he gets further behind because the book just gets better and better and he won't stop himself from taking the time with it.

Sometimes he tucks it away. He follows a path and makes something. He adds it to a growing pile of _someday._ He can't remember the last time he had so many different possibilities.

He's writing. There was a lull during that few weeks. When things were hard. He wrote, then, too, but it fought him. That stuff . . . it's good. Different. And every word of it fought him, but it's sharp. It's worth it. He has the strong sense it's worth it, even if he's not exactly sure what he'll do with it. He's just not sure right now.

It's Nikki and Rook on the surface of it, but dark and deep. The kind of thing there really isn't time for in the breezy two hundred pages Black Pawn wants. That he usually wants.

It's been a relief over the last four years. The formula. He's _good_ at it and it's been a kind therapy. Lazy therapy, maybe, but therapy. A simple path from point A to point B that's satisfying. That's a relief. Getting the two of them together exactly half way through the first book and knocking down every obstacle after that in no more than a chapter or two.

Shooting his rivals in the face.

Transparent, maybe. Lazy, maybe. But satisfying. _So_ satisfying.

But in that few weeks—when it was't good—there was more. Something well below the surface that he struggled with when he _really_ didn't need anything else fighting him. When everything was fighting him, the words wouldn't come without a fight, either

But he's proud of it. He's proud of the little he captured, even if he doesn't know exactly where it fits right now. It's work that will keep.

Since it's been better—since _they've_ been better—he's been _writing_. Fast and constant and every time he thinks he can take a break, it's there. The words are there and the scene is there. Pushing at his mind and demanding. He's writing. And she's good about it.

She stays or she lets him stay, and sometimes she goes. She gives him the room when he needs it. Or when she does. He's not easy to be with when he's writing. He's not easy to be with, and sometimes she goes. She checks in on him, but not too often. She laughs when he loses focus and drops the phone in the middle of a conversation.

And she lets him have it when it's enough. When it's been long enough and he's taking his frustration out on Alexis and his mother. On her. She goes and she comes back and she lets him have it.

She left this time. Not because of anything he did. He doesn't think so? She called, so he doesn't think it's something he did. She called. Last night? Or maybe in he afternoon. She was on her way somewhere. Driving or something and distracted. Upset, maybe?

He hopes not, but he thinks she might have been upset. He thinks that's what brought him out of it. Eventually. Sudden, belated alarm bells and the strong sense that she might be upset. That he definitely missed her.

That's what's landed him on her doorstep now and it's still early, even though he diverted to pick up coffee and stall for a little more time. He sets the cups on a newspaper box and shakes back the cuff of his jacket, but he's staring at bare skin. He left his watch. He squints up at the sun as if it will tell him the time. It hurts his eyes and says early. _Early_.

It takes him far longer than it should to remember his phone. He fumbles it out of his pocket. The wrong pocket. The pocket he never keeps it in. He fleetingly wonders if he remembered to change his underwear—if he even remembered to _wear_ any—but the thought goes, because . . . _shit_. It's _really_ early.

He's on her doorstep. He's worried and he misses her, but he thinks about going. He thinks maybe this is a bad idea, even if she's upset. Maybe especially if she's upset.

He has meetings today and . . . _shit_. That's why she called. One of the reasons she called. Because she knew he'd forget. That there's a better than even chance that he'd forget and not even register Gina's ring tone or Paula's. Hers _—_ Kate's—is the only one that seems to penetrate when he's like this. Even Alexis only has a 50–50 shot of catching him.

So she called to remind him, and . . . _shit._ She hates that. She _should_ hate that. She's not his damned secretary. He wonders about underwear again and it comes back to him all of a sudden. How quiet she was on the phone and the fact that she really only called to remind him. He thinks he's useless and an ass and he really might need a secretary.

He snatches up the coffee cups. The liquid sloshes on his shoes. A single scalding drop soaks through to the skin of his thigh, but he's too impatient to right himself. One of her neighbors is coming out the front of the building. He catches the door and throws a distracted smile the woman's way. She glares and darts clear of another coffee geyser as his elbow connects sharply with the heavy glass door.

He opts for the stairs. It's a dumb idea, given the coffee and how clumsy he is, but he's impatient. He misses her and he thinks she was upset and he was clueless and he just wants to see her. Even if she yells, he wants to see her. He takes the stairs two at time and wonders idly how much coffee will be left in either cup before he hits her floor.

He juggles the cups to the crook of one arm and digs for the key in his pocket. It's not there, and he thinks for a minute he might cry. He's tired. There was no chance of him sleeping while he waited for it to be just regular early, and he doesn't remember the last time she ordered him to bed.

He closes his eyes and takes a long breath. It's there. The key is there. He's more certain about that than he is about underwear because he's hardly let go of it since she gave it to him. It's there. It's always there.

He remembers the phone. The wrong pocket. He shifts everything over to the other arm and searches. The panic is just about to set in when he finds it in a jacket pocket he never uses—one he hardly knew he had. The underwear situation is probably hopeless.

He fits the key in the lock with jittery hands and twists before the voice wondering if he should knock can get too loud. He misses her. He doesn't want to knock.

He bumps his hip against the door when it sticks like it always does. The lid pops off his coffee entirely. The ensuing coffee wave gets most of his sleeve and one lapel. He's definitely going to have to change. He eases the door closed and absent-mindedly wonders if he has anything even half suitable here. Anything he can change into before he has to go.

"Kate?" His voice is rough and creaky. He probably hasn't uttered a word since they talked on the phone, whenever that was. He clears his throat and tries again as he makes his way into the kitchen. "Beckett, heads up."

"Castle?" It's testy. Muffled, but testy.

"I brought coffee," he says quickly. Easily a third of it's missing and it's already going on lukewarm, but it might just save his life.

He hears the thunk of the bedroom door and turns toward the short hallway. He's eager.

He turns and she's there. Sober navy from her chin to the floor. From her chin to the flat, high-gloss shoes that almost brought a laugh bubbling up that day. Almost a laugh, but not quite, because they're so out of place on her, but Roy was dead and things were so bad between them and he didn't know if they'd ever be good again.

She's there in sober navy.

Sober navy except for the light glinting off the bright brass of a button that shouldn't be there. The same button that's tucked away in his desk. That he found under plastic and pinned to a hanger with the rest of his dry cleaning. The button he didn't remember pulling off. But he must have he must have tried to do something useful. To claw away the dark fabric and figure out how— _how_ —there could be so much blood before he'd even had time to draw breath.

She's there in sober navy.

The coffee slips from his hands.

* * *

It's piling up behind her. It's still better. They're still better than they were, even if they're not good. Even if things have been piling up. They're still better.

But things are piling up. She knows. She'll deal with it when she can. Whenever that will be.

Not today. Today, she arranges things on the unworn duty belt. Whistle. Polished cuffs and white gloves with the seams that will pinch and chafe. The holster that's stiff and creaking, but shines. All of it shines.

None of it's broken in. None of it fits right. There was no time to order a tall dress shirt and her wrists stick out under the jacket, pale and bony and adolescent looking. The pants don't quite brush the polished tops of the gleaming lace-ups and she'll probably get dinged for that.

She'll probably get dinged for all of it. For how many inches from _this_ section of the P.G. 204-01, 10-01 Revision, Section D, Paragraph 3 says _that_ should be. Everything she has is piecemeal and not quite right. Things she had to get together in a rush because it's another thing that's been piling up.

She's somehow missed out on Gates and her enthusiasm for dress inspection the last two years. Shot. Suspended. Good excuses, she supposes, but this time she just put it off. This time she dug in her heels and decided to forget about it until she was scrambling.

She shrugs her shoulders, trying to make the shield and name plate sit right on her chest. Her shirt tail bunches up under the ill-fitting belt and wonders if it's too late to get shot and get out of this stupid inspection.

The thought fixes her spine in place. The heel of her hand lands hard, high-up on her chest and the thought freezes her joints.

It's not just another thing piling up. It's . . . . _shit._

She forces her hand away from the scar. She makes her fists heavy and drops them to her sides and looks in the bathroom mirror. Fog from her shower clings to the outline of it in a jagged frame. It breaks her body up into startling pieces like an unexpected truth. _Shit._

It's not _just_ another thing piling up. Her skin crawls under the scratchy fabric and she wants to strip it all off. She wants to claw it away. Shred it until she's naked. Until she can breathe again and the air washes over her skin. Until she can breathe.

It's not just another thing that's piling up. But it's one of them. One of a lot, and it might be why? It's one reason why, anyway. _Shit._

She's been watching it all out of the corner of her eye. The things as they pile up. She doesn't even really know what things they are. If they're hers or theirs. More hers, she thinks, but even still . . . even still. There's less of what's hers that she can keep from him. Less that she should. Less that she _wants_ to.

That carries her along. She tells herself it's a good thing and that's not a lie. There's so little she can hide from him now and even less that she wants to. That's good.

But it's a relief that he's writing. That's not a lie, either. It's a relief that he's kind of . . . checked out right now.

That's not exactly fair. _Checked out._ He's working and thinking like that is what let Meredith in. What let Vaughn in. Partly, anyway.

He's _working_ and however much she gives him shit, she respects that it _is_ work. She likes that it is.

She wondered how that would be. Long before they were together, she wondered if Richard Castle would come crashing down to earth for good and all when she got to see him working.

He did. He has. But that's not exactly it.

The romance of it is gone, but it isn't. She snags the thought as it glides across her mind and tucks it away for later. She likes it. She likes it for them and the heavy jacket isn't quite as tight over her shoulders when she tucks the thought away.

The romance is gone because he really will wear that t-shirt until it disintegrates if she doesn't herd him into the shower. If she doesn't snatch it up from the bathroom floor and stuff it deep in the hamper while he's still in there.

It's gone because gets _bitchy_ in a hurry when he's too dumb to know that he needs sleep or food or both, not necessarily in that order. It's gone because he gets _stupid_ and forgetful and she finds a sharp reminder on her tongue that she's not his damned _mother._ And she chokes on that for all kinds of reasons.

But it's work. She gets to see it happen. Her favorite author clacking away and making things she loves. And it's _work._

For her, that's a different kind of romance. She likes him better for it. She loves the books more for it. For the long hours and the fact that they both know it's a lie every time he shoves back from the desk and says that it's good enough. When he runs a frustrated hand through his hair and says that he's just _done_ with it and it's good enough. They both know he'll be back at it before too long and she likes that.

She always likes it, but it's a relief right now.

There's nothing wrong. Not exactly wrong. She doesn't know why things are piling up, just that they are.

She blames April. The sun sets later and later and there are hardly any days left in it. They haven't talked about summer. She doesn't _want_ to talk about summer.

She wants it to just happen. Like last summer. She wants the days and weeks to just happen, but they can't. It will never be the first summer again with its stolen days and all its secrets.

That's a good thing. She tells herself that. She _knows_ that. But she still has to tell herself, too, and it's a relief that he's writing.

She doesn't want to have to steal days. Not really. She reminds herself what it was like listening to his end of every phone call while Alexis and Martha were in Europe.

The way he'd try a little too hard. The way he'd wink and twine his arm around her waist just as he was hanging up. The way he'd pretend like he loved getting away with something. The way he'd turn the phone over and over in his hands the whole night like he wanted to call back and confess.

Not confess. _Share._ Tell the world.

However he might have panicked the morning after the storm—however much he really did love having a secret with her last summer—his instinct is to tell. Always to tell.

She doesn't want the secret. They don't _need_ it. This isn't about the forbidden.

After the fact—so long after the fact—she knows that. She curses herself for it. She curses herself for needing the reminder. For it being another thing she knows, but she still has to tell herself.

Because Sophia Fucking Turner, or whatever the hell her name really was, is someone else she let in. Another insidious voice that whispered and whispered. That made her mistrust the things about him—about them together—that she loves most.

That made her worry about how bright and hot they've always burned, whether they were together or not. About how long that could possibly last.

They still burn. That hasn't changed.

Because it's not about the secrets. Or not the way she thought. Not the way Sophia made her afraid it would be. The way she let Sophia make her afraid.

They still have secrets. They'll always have secrets.

Because she swears she's not ticklish, and he finds these places on her body that he makes his own. That drive her out of her mind and she swears they don't exist when his hands aren't on her.

Because he has these ridiculous gaps in the things he knows and he loves her telling him. He loves her introducing and explaining and turning things over on her tongue. He loves arguing with her and he loves when she wins.

There will always be secrets. They'll always burn. They've survived daylight.

They've more than survived it and even though things were bad for a while, they're better now. They're still better.

But they haven't talked about summer and that eats away at "better."

Alexis will be home. She won't be at college, anyway, and Kate's not sure what that means.

She and Alexis are fine. Since Paris, they're better than fine. They're back to something more than just getting along for his sake.

Alexis is her father's daughter. She wants to know things. To understand. She's naturally curious.

Not naturally. She _learned_ to be curious. He taught her that. Endless, maddening questions, and her mannerisms are so much like his that she wants to laugh out loud.

But she hides it behind a fist. She does now, anyway, because Alexis is serious. Serious and sensitive, and the one and only time that Kate forgets herself and laughs, there's a flash of something familiar on the girl's face. Something she's seen before on him and she realizes that it's hurt. Embarrassment and retreat and _hurt._ He's just better at hiding it.

She wants to know things. Kate finds it such a relief that she wants to _know_ things. That she makes sense of the whole experience by asking questions that Kate can answer—about jurisdiction and procedure and extraordinary powers—and she files the information away and it helps.

It's such a relief that she'll come to her with questions like that. And an equal relief that she goes to him—that she goes to her father—when she needs to fall apart. It's such a relief that she can do _something_ for her—for him and his daughter.

And it's a relief that no one asks her to do too much. To do that emotional heavy lifting that leaves him grey-faced and stoic and trying not to fall apart. No one asks her to do too much, and it's a relief.

She's not proud of that, but it's a relief all the same.

She doesn't know what it means for the summer, though. They're resilient. Both of them. They're so eager and able to bounce back. But it's not over for them. He still has nightmares, and Alexis has slipped into the loft in the middle of the night more than once over the last few months.

More than once Kate has found the two of them huddled on the couch together. One blanket between them and the sun just touching them through the window. More than once, she's found him slumped against the doorframe to his daughter's bedroom, staring and not really awake. Not really asleep, either.

More than once she's pried the phone from his hand at 3 am and reminded him that it's not a good idea. That he can call her in the morning, but the middle of the night is not a good idea for either of them.

They go away for the summer. He goes away. Not last summer, but that was stolen. Not the summer before when he was waiting. Waiting almost the whole summer. She knows that from Espo. From Ryan and Martha. He's never said, but he waited.

But they usually go away for the summer, and she knows he'll say that she's welcome whenever she can get away. Whenever she can take the time. She thinks he'll say that and she thinks he'll mean it.

But she doesn't know where she fits when he and Alexis are better, but not good. She doesn't know if they need the summer. She doesn't know whether or not she's part of what either of them needs.

She feels a strange sensation at the back of her eyes. She looks into the mirror, startled to see all of herself at once. Startled to see the overhead light shimmering in the suspicious brightness of her eyes. Startled to find herself shaking and the tears ready to fall.

She swipes a brutal cuff over her face and slams the medicine cabinet. She doesn't have time for this. Instinct has her eyes dropping to her wrist, but her father's watch isn't regulation. She doesn't know _what_ she has time for, but certainly not all the things piling up behind her.

She turns on her heel and hates the squeak of the uncomfortable lace ups. She makes her way into the bedroom and tries to remember where her phone is. She tries to remember her hat and whatever else she needs for this stupid inspection.

She hears something. She freezes again. She freezes, then jerks into motion. It's the door. It's her door and it takes her too long to go for her weapon. The coat doesn't move freely and the holster is stiff and her heart is pounding.

She gets it the next second. She understands. It feels like the longest second of her life, but she gets it. It's him and rage and relief rise up in equal measure. It rises up from her toes and she can feel herself flushing to the roots of her hair.

" _Castle_?"

She shoulders out the bedroom door and down the hall. She hears him babbling about something. _Something._

She's going to strangle him.

She's going to kiss him.

He'd better have coffee.

She rounds the corner and it almost knocks her down. The look on his face almost knocks her down.

Something falls from his hand. She hears a hollow pop. Not actually loud. Just loud in the sudden, heavy silence. It's enough to still her. It's enough to make him to take one lurching step toward her, then stop dead.

She watches. One cup lands upright and the lid erupts in a vertical wash of brown. The other lands on its side and rolls drunkenly back and forth in the rapidly spreading puddle.

He had coffee.

* * *

His pants are splashed and spotted all the way up to the knees.

She's trying to get close to him, but he has her by the elbows and his arms are stiff. They're straight and unyielding and there isn't a hint of color in his face.

She's ruining her shoes.

"Kate?" His voice sounds rough and strange and unused. "Who's dead?"

"What?" Her fingers close tighter around his forearms. She must be bruising him, but he doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't seem to care. "Dead?"

"How long have I been out of it?" He sounds more like himself. The words crowd and pile up and there's an edge she thinks he means to sound funny. It doesn't. "I thought it was a day or two."

"No one's dead, Castle," she says gently. "We talked last night."

She takes a step closer to him and feels the coffee top the rubber sole of her shoe and seep in at the stitching.

He looks down at her, stricken. Pale and absolutely stricken, and she can't remember anything in the last year that's hurt as much as the look on his face right now.

He looks down at her and she hates these fucking shoes.

"Inspection. Remember?" She's trying to make it light. She's trying to make him look at her some other way.

"Inspection," he repeats.

It's hollow. She's making it worse.

"Castle . . ." She tugs at his sleeve. It's soaked, too. She wonders idly what happened. Where he's been and what he's been doing. She tugs at his sleeve. She tries to make him sit down.

"I missed you," he says suddenly. "Your coffee. I'm sorry."

She tries to tell him it's fine. She tries to make him sit down, but he's talking in fits and starts now. It's hard to follow, and he's trying not to look at her like that. He's trying and he's making it worse, too.

"We talked yesterday?" He looks to her for confirmation and she nods. "You were upset. I'm sorry."

She blinks at him. She wasn't . . . she _was_. Things are piling up and she was staring at the uniform. A dark oblong on the back of the closet door, duller for the plastic. She was upset, but he wasn't supposed to know.

"I wasn't . . ." She narrows her eyes at him. "I'm not upset with _you,_ Castle."

"You should be," he says quickly.

He slides his arms around her and ducks his head behind hers. His lips land just below the knot of hair gathered at the nape of her neck and it's . . . home. It's the only word for it. She feels weary and warm and she just wants to shut the world out. She wants to be with him and shut the world out.

"No," she says and it's defiant. Petulant.

He laughs. The barest stirring of breath against her skin and she just wants to shut the world out.

"Yes," he insists. "You're not my secretary and I missed you."

Her spine jerks straight. It hurts—it physically _hurts_ —but she peels herself back from him. She takes a step back. The soaked cuff of her pants sticks to skin.

"Meetings. You have meetings and _shit!_ Castle!" Her eyes dart around the room, panicked. She's looking for a clock. Doesn't she have any damned clocks? "What time is it?"

"I don't care," he snaps and pulls her back toward him. "Also, I don't have my watch."

She laughs and goes along willingly. She crashes into him and tilts her mouth up along his jaw. "Me neither."

He presses his lips to her cheek.

"You don't care?" he sounds hopeful and resigned at the same time.

"Don't have my watch." She sighs and lets her forehead fall against his shoulder. "Not regulation."

He slides his hands down to her elbows and steps back. It's clumsy and reluctant and they're both sloshing at this point. His shoes are ruined, too.

He studies her. She can feel him studying her and she's afraid to look. She's afraid what she might see, but his hands are traveling now. Shoulder to wrist and over her collar. His fingertip connects the bright brass dots of her coat buttons.

"It's new," he says quietly.

She nods, and he looks relieved.

"I have . . ." He stops abruptly. His fingers close around the second button like he can't help it.

His breath hitches and she looks up at him. She can't _not_ look any more.

It's not . . . She doesn't know what it is and what it's not. He's _studying_ her and she doesn't know what that means.

"We need to talk." His voice is a clipped, cool blank and his face is unreadable.

He's studying her and her stomach drops. Everything drops and she feels heavy and awful.

He sees it. He must see it, because the next second his palm is splayed out over the back of her neck and he's kissing her hard, and deep.

"Not . . . _Not_ like . . ." It's disjointed. He can't seem to stop kissing her. "Not like that. We should talk. I want to talk."

"Ok," she murmurs and she can't stop kissing him either. "Yes. Ok."

He kisses her one last time. Thoroughly. Soundly. He pulls back and keeps his eyes on her face like anything else is a problem. "Ok."

"I'll come over when I'm done?"

"No." He frowns. Shakes his head. "I want to . . . Can we go out? Will you go out with me?"

She grins up at him. "You asking me on a date?"

"Yeah," he grins back. "I'm asking you on a date."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I remember being fascinated whenever my dad had dress inspection. There were all these things he didn't usually carry or wear and everything was pressed and polished . Of course, as a kid, I never really thought about the fact that the only other time he'd wear his dress uniform was a formal funeral.
> 
> I may have questioned him on the down low about whether a detective would have dress inspections. (Making it the second strangest bit of research I've ever done for a fic . . .)
> 
>   
> 


	4. Stars, indeed, and sometimes falling ones

* * *

She grudgingly lets him change his pants at her place and shoves him out the door. Not really _grudgingly_.

She's probably going to be late and he might be, too, if he doesn't leave, like, five minutes ago, so worrying about clothing coming off instead of going on is sensible.

He hates sensible. He has all kinds of arguments against sensible, but she just laughs as she shoves him out the door. She says she'll see him later.

She opens it again and he's already there. His face is already ducking into the hallway, and he asks if it's later yet. She scowls. She gives him one more kiss and tells him he has to _go_. She tells him she'll see him later.

It's a date. She'll see him later.

In the meantime, she shoves him out the door with the lucky socks in his pocket after all.

His shoes are a wreck, but he can hit a stand and remedy that on the way. The jeans will have Gina pursing her lips and punishing him all day, but there's no crease sharp enough to make up for vanilla-scented silk-merino blend. His left shirt sleeve is a loss and nothing he has at Kate's has all its buttons intact. He'll have to keep the spare jacket on all day.

But he had a spare jacket at her place. A spare jacket hanging there. Something forgotten one of the dozen times they never made it to the bedroom. One of the dozen times they never made it out of the hallway, and it's just been hanging on the hook by the door ever since. That's something. That and the button situation are something. Good omens.

He expects the day to be endless, the meetings to be endless. He braces for trouble. A lot of yelling and grinding boredom. On his best day, he can't keep his mind on this kind of thing. He hates the wrangling and the hyper-polite doublespeak.

He hates the fact that no one actually wants him there. That Paula and Gina both _need_ him there to yell at because they shouldn't yell at each other. Because _that_ would be unprofessional.

This isn't his best day, and his mind is on Kate. His mind is on later. It's on what comes next. What they'll talk about. How he thinks they'll agree to make this all up as they go along. They'll _talk_ and his mind is on that.

He expects ten hours of unmitigated disaster, because his head is _so_ not in this. But it's not like that. It doesn't go like that.

He stops and gets his shoes shined. He hops up in the chair and changes his socks and The kid pointedly doesn't ask. The kid takes care of one shoe, then the other, and Castle overtips him obscenely for the blessed relief of not squelching around in vanilla-scented cloud.

He's miraculously on time—a little early, actually—and Gina blinks at him in not-entirely-pleased surprise. She likes to be mad at him, and he's stolen her usual opening salvo. That's another good omen. Maybe they really are lucky socks.

She purses her lips about the jeans, but it turns out that it's just the three of them in the room. The studio rep is calling in and Castle knows he looks better than fine from the waist up.

It's one of his favorite jackets. He can't believe he forgot it. Then he remembers.

He remembers Kate's body under his. Up against the door. Dirty words from her and something that might have been screams if there weren't keys and idle conversation in the hallway. Right on the other side of the door. He remembers, and it's a wonder the jacket made it through in one piece. His shirt buttons weren't so lucky.

Gina fires a series of questions at him about the agenda for the day. His attention snaps back to the here and now and somewhere from the depths of his writing fugue state— somewhere outside the sharp desire of memory and Kate's voice—he dredges up just enough that Gina can't say she's caught him out.

She's really got nothing to bitch about. All of it puts her off her game, and that just _tickles_ Paula. There's another good omen.

It goes well. The whole day goes smoothly. It's still boring as hell, but without him to yell at, they hit the ground running, and he wonders how much time they usually waste on that. On yelling at him.

His head isn't in it, but he fakes it. He pulls it off for the first time in a long time. For the first time maybe ever. Paula can't seem to think of much to yell at him about, either. Probably because his head isn't in it.

He has no real idea what he's agreeing to. But his vote is a distant second to Paula's anyway. He usually puts up enough of a fight—just for the sake of appearances—that she yells. He doesn't today. She'll tell him later, he'll sign on the dotted line, and they'll forego the yelling for once.

In the meantime, he's in the room enough to fake it, but his thoughts skip along. He's wound up. Wound up, but not exactly nervous.

He's . . . _eager._ He wants it now. He doesn't just want them to be better. He wants them to be good.

They'll talk.

The gnawing worry is gone. Most of it's gone, anyway. Just like that.

It's mostly gone, and that centers him. It centers him on what he wants. Where he wants them to end up. However they get there, he knows that he wants it to be them. Always them. _Together._

But it's not gone _just_ like that.

He tugs at the sleeves of one of his favorite jackets and he's gripped by a different kind memory. The memory of sunlight and her this morning. Terrible sunlight and her two years ago. Memory grabs him by the throat and the air races out of him all over again.

She burned it out of him. The sight of her did. The sight of her in the hallway in her dress uniform. Image and memory and pain. They stomped and knocked and pressed and _burned_ the worry right out of him and now it's gone.

There's really no _just like that_ about it, but the worry is gone anyway.

He feels stupid. Sheepish and _bad_ at this. Bad at all of it, but there's lightness, too. He only realizes now how much that worry weighed. How hard it's been to limp along. Better, but not good.

But it's gone now. They'll talk. She wants to talk and she was afraid he meant _talk_ and she doesn't want that. She doesn't _want_ that. It's a fierce, simple truth and it makes things so much better.

They'll talk.

He feels stupid for not doing this weeks ago. For not starting before anyone could get into his head or her head.

They'll talk. He doesn't know what he'll say. What she'll say.

But the gnawing worry is gone.

They'll talk. They'll make their way back to good.

They'll make their way to better than that.

* * *

She's not quite late and that's about all her day has to say for itself.

It's not much. She's late by the Captain's standards in any case.

She breathes in deep through her nose and brings her heart rate back down. She had to take the long way around the block. Construction, and that meant she couldn't wait for the elevator. It meant she needed to eat up the stairs, two at a time.

Gates narrows her eyes, but the clock on the wall is on Kate's side. She's not quite late, and that's about it for any kind of upside.

Everything else about the day— _everything_ —grates on her one way or another. The ill fit of her dress uniform. The pull of it across her shoulders and the tight collar. The weight. The still-damp cuffs of her pants and the smell of coffee that she's sure will have Gates pulling her out of line and dressing her down for all to see.

She hates the _fact_ of it. Standing at attention and staring straight ahead. She hates other people's hands rooting around her desk drawers. She hates the rulers and scrutiny and invasion of her personal space. Her professional space.

It's all such a waste of time. All the things she's ever hated about the job pressing in on her. She hates the hours of arbitrary hoops and too much time to think. Nothing to occupy her mind but later. _Later._

She hates the unfamiliar nerves. This isn't the kind of thing she worries about. It's not the kind of thing she's ever _had_ to worry about.

She coasts. She knows that. She gets away with a lot. She always has.

She's smart. She's attractive. She's driven and good at what she does, and it's always gone a long way. She bends the rules and moves along. Up. She's always been good enough to get away with a lot.

Almost always, but not today.

Today the pen clicks open and scrapes across the page. The pen records, and she hates it. A quarter inch here and a fingerprint on the yellow metal of her name plate. She hates it.

She didn't take the time she should have with her hair and she can feel a pin working its way free. She can feel it digging into the base of her skull, and she wants more than anything to scratch. She wants to drag savage nails over her scalp and get the hell out of here.

Her stomach jumps. It rises and falls and she presses her thumbs into the outside of her thighs to keep her hands still. She _hates_ this.

Gates _tsks_ about her pants and doesn't even bother to measure how short they fall. She shakes her head about the pale strip of wrist beyond the end of the jacket. Kate wants to scream. She wants to break the line and get the hell out of there and it's got nothing to do with Gates. It doesn't have _a lot_ to do with Gates.

It's the uniform. The uniform isn't right and she's not right in it.

That didn't start with stubborn denial about today. It didn't start with these particular hoops and scrambling to pull something together when it turned out it wasn't going to go away. Gates wasn't and the stupid Inspection wasn't. None of this started with the realization that she wasn't going to get out of this one.

It didn't even start two years ago with Montgomery not quite in the ground and life spilling out of her under a blue sky she could hardly see. She could hardly see it for Castle gathering her in his arms and telling her something she already knew. Something she wasn't ready to hear.

That's all bad enough, but this didn't start there.

She never loved being in uniform. It wasn't a wild child thing. Her mother's murder taught her a cold, broken kind of patience with things she hated. It wasn't a wild child thing by then.

She never loved the double takes. The incredulous looks brought on by a woman like her in uniform. _A woman like her,_ whatever that is. She never loved every other person asking if she _liked_ her job in a tone that suggested they already knew the answer.

She hated that about Castle that first case. The way he looked her up and down and _knew_ that once upon a time, she'd had other dreams. That she'd had better options than the uniform.

She _hated_ that he knew. That if he'd bothered, he could have told the whole story back to her. How she hated the question. That love wasn't the word for how she felt about the job when she was in uniform.

The uniform was always a stepping stone. Always a means to an end. One she couldn't get it behind her fast enough. And once she did, no good ever came of needing to pull it out again.

Funerals and formalities. The only things that could send her that deep into the back of the closet. No good ever came of it.

It grates on her. Memory comes nipping at her heels without her realizing it. Without her say so.

Whether it started two years ago or not, she thought she was further past it. This exact thing. This particular way that the uniform isn't right and she's not right in it. She'd been telling herself she'd come a long way for a year. For longer than that. And then she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Then it took her to pieces.

And it took _him_ to pieces. She knows that now. Only just now. Just since this morning when she saw his face. Nothing— _nothing_ —they've seen in any April before has hurt like that.

It's new. For her, at least, it's a new thing to hate about navy and yellow metal and this being exactly one half inch from that.

It's entirely new, and she's ashamed. She's ashamed that she hasn't bothered to think where he is. She could hardly see the sky for him that day. She could hardly hear the chaos erupting around her for his words, and she's never bothered to think about it.

She couldn't that summer. She won't blame herself for that. She couldn't.

But since then? Since they've been together? It's another thing they don't talk about. They haven't talked about. What he has and hasn't dealt with about that day. About those months. About that summer. They don't talk about what they should or shouldn't have dealt with together.

She wants to. She wants to talk about it now. She wants to start talking and _keep_ talking and keep everyone else out of her head.

She's ashamed and the day drags on. She's busy. Her body is busy. She stands and reports. She's on hand for Esposito's review and Ryan's. This is her job, too. They're here team and she owes them her best.

She gives it. She gives the best she has today. There are things she has to say and she says them. Her mouth and hands and body are all busy, but there's too much time to think.

She should want it. She should probably want the time to think. They need to talk. They _will_ talk. She's sure of that now and she should probably know what she's going to say. What the question is and how she'll answer.

She should want the time to think, but she doesn't. She wants it to be later. She wants to be in it. The conversation and what comes next. Even if it's messy. If it's painful and they do it wrong.

Even if they do a lot of things wrong she wants to be in it.

She wants it to be _later_.

* * *

He's out of his meetings with better than an hour to kill. He has nothing to do and he's abruptly nervous. He second guesses the reservation, but he already texted it to her and she'll be annoyed if he changes it. It's right, anyway. A favorite of theirs and quiet.

He thinks about going home to change. He should. His shirt is a wreck under the jacket, and, really, jeans? For the talk, he's going to wear jeans? He starts to panic a little then. Because what if it's _the_ talk?

He starts to panic and he stops. The worry is just gone and the panic can't sustain itself.

He doesn't have a ring. He's wearing jeans and it's one of their reliable places. It's not going to be _the_ talk, even if it's the talk. It'll just be . . . the talk _about_ the talk.

And anyway, he doesn't want to change. He's superstitious. The jacket is a favorite and he really thinks the socks might be lucky.

He doesn't want to go home. He doesn't want to change.

He wants to see her. He wants to go to her right now.

He can't. Gates will have his head—her head—if anyone messes with her well-ordered machine today. He can't set foot in the precinct. He can't go to her.

He can wait, though. He decides he can wait. He can pick her up at the door and see her home. He likes the idea. It's . . . courtly. It tickles him. He can see her home and hover while she changes. Supervise her lingerie choices. That's less courtly, but it tickles him, too.

He knows it's not the greatest idea. He knows there's a strong possibility that they won't make it to the bedroom if he picks her up and goes home with her. There's _always_ a strong possibility of that, even if they both know they need to talk. Even if they know that _out_ is a much better idea in that case.

It's not the greatest idea, but he's stuck on it now, and he absolutely can't wait all the hours that are left until he sees her.

He'll go to her and even if she chases him off—even if she tells him that she'll see him later—he can see her sooner. Sooner is good.

There's a florist on Second and he knows all of a sudden that flowers are right. Flowers are good, and he can kill a lot time with that. He's a ditherer when it comes to flowers and killing time is good. Killing time means he won't do something stupid like show up at the precinct, Gates be damned.

He doesn't dither.

He picks out a sunflower right away. It's huge. A heavy, nodding head in a vase, practically alone, but he loves it. The florist tries to talk him out of it. She tries to talk him into something pastel and spring-like. She has snapdragons or any of a number of lilies. But he stands fast. He likes the rich, full-blooded gold of the leaves and the dark, textured center. He likes the idea of a portable sun to give her.

The florist is dubious, then bordering on pushy. He concedes on some ferny green things that she insists will soften it and he lets her have at it with tissue paper and raffia.

He wanders while the she fusses with the arrangement. He strolls around the refrigerated case, and a bank of gum ball machines catches his eye. None of them has gum balls, of course. It's all fake mustaches and temporary tattoos and plastic jewelry.

_Plastic jewelry._ It catches his eye and the quarters are in his hand before he can think about it. Four quarters before it drops. Before it tumbles into the silver slide and out into his hand. He sets the other aside—a cheesy heart pendant on a frayed string and some kind of ear cuff or something. He sets those aside and pops open the third bubble.

It's . . . squishy. Translucent pale green and rubbery all over. The "stone" is a wide, beveled expanse. A rounded oblong about the size of a cameo. He can barely get the thing over the tip of his pinky, but it tickles him. It makes him laugh and makes his stomach flip when he thinks about sliding it on her finger.

It's not going to be the talk. Not tonight. But it might be the talk about the talk and it's perfect. He snaps it back in its bubble and slips it in his pocket.

The florist shakes her head and hands him his sunflower.

It's perfect, too.

* * *

It's late when he turns the corner and he sees her before she sees him.

The deep shadow of the precinct's entrance has her, then gives her up. A slash of sunlight falls across her and glints off the swinging arc of buttons.

Her uniform jacket is open. The top few buttons of the dress blouse underneath are undone and she has her hat tucked under her arm.

He's glad. He's glad to see skin and haphazard diagonals. To see the formality undone. Even if the worry is gone—even if it's mostly gone—seeing her like this loosens his jaw. It uncurls the instinctive fists he's carried his hands in all day, and he breathes deep for the first time in hours. Since the sunlight hit the button that shouldn't be there.

He breathes deep and it's . . . foul. Tar and exhaust and that's New York for you.

The grind of machinery intrudes, now that he notices. Now that he can spare a glance for anything but her, he realizes the street in front of the precinct is more or less gone. He'll have to backtrack or walk down to the next corner and back around.

Most of the block is a dotted maze of orange barrels all strung between with black-on-yellow caution tape. There's a series of rough, stuttering grooves where the pavement should be. In front of the precinct itself, it's gone entirely. There's a gaping hole several cruisers long and at least a couple wide.

It's fringed with a knee-high fence of pocked metal and it must be deep. He can't see a thing of the workmen inside, though he hears them calling up from way down. Further on, just past the precinct steps, a foul-smelling paving truck bubbles and smokes. He sees pools of the dark, sticky stuff here and there and wonders how many properly hemmed pants made it to Inspection intact.

It brings his attention back to her. The scent of coffee and her trying to scowl down at him. Laughing, really, though as he crouched clumsily by her feet with damp paper towels and tried to do _something_ about her shoes or the drenched bottoms of her pant legs. Something before she shooed him out the door with his lucky socks in the pocket a spare jacket and a stern admonition not to keep Paula and Gina waiting.

It brings his attention back to her the second before she sees him. Just before the tired pinch of a long day lets go the lines of her face. Before she smiles and looks years younger. She looks years younger in the moment, and he thinks about a picture of her on the hood of a black-and-white. He thinks about her, high shoulders, shy grin and all.

The hand curled under her hat flips up in a small wave. Muscle memory carries her to the curb right in front of her. It's the middle of the street and the shortest route to meet him. Her nose wrinkles as she catches the scent of tar and he laughs out loud, drawing unwilling smiles from more than one head-down commuter brushing by him.

Their eyes meet. Her mouth twists—a smile and an annoyed frown all at once—and he can't wait to get to her. They both break right at the same moment, their steps carrying them toward opposite corners. They stop at the same time, too. He scowls and she grins. A comedy routine turned inside out.

He reverses course and steps to his left. He can see her smile turn smug even with the plume of smoke gusting dark and heavy between them. She knew he'd go her way.

He puts his head down, too, and focuses on navigating the crowd. The traffic is lighter on her side of the street. He doesn't want her to beat him by too much. He wants to catch her. He wants a chance to tease her about always needing to have her way.

He's eager and impatient. Nervous again, but that's nothing new. If he lets himself admit it, he's always a little nervous, meeting her again after a while. A couple of days. A couple of hours. He's always nervous. He puts his head down and decides it counts as a while.

There's a clutch of teenagers in his way. A group of girls a few years younger than Alexis. They're arm in arm, taking up the breadth of the sidewalk as they stumble and shove each other. He steps aside with his back to the precinct, his back to her. He pulls up on his toes and sucks in his stomach to avoid an errant purse. The girls are loud and laughing as they press by him, and he misses it at first. A commotion.

A commotion behind him and he's slow to turn. It's the workmen. He assumes it's the workmen until he hears a sharp, sudden "Hey!" It's deep and menacing and he knows it. _Esposito._ He's heard it a hundred times.

He knows it. It brings him around quickly now, and his eyes find Kate right away. He sees her in profile. Someone in front of her saying something. A man. He's yelling.

Castle finds his mind going through the familiar routine, cataloging him. Height, weight. The droop of his left shoulder, like he's in pain. The wide, hurried cuff of stiff, new jeans that are too long for him.

He's still yelling. Kate's face goes from annoyed to serious in a heartbeat. Between one step and the next, her posture changes entirely and Castle knows one hand is falling to her hip. She raises the hat in front of her with the other. A distraction if she needs it.

But it's too late.

The man is seven steps away when he raises his right arm. It's stiff and awkward in front of him. He's not comfortable with a gun. The thought crosses Castle's mind completely before he even registers it. Before Kate's name is ripped from his throat and he can't even hear it over the construction noise. He can't hear it at all over the sounds of New York just after five.

The man is seven steps away when he fires twice.

He's seven steps away when Kate's body jerks back and drops to the pavement.

* * *


	5. The Next Breath

He tackled the man. The shooter.

That's what Esposito tells him, anyway. He tackled him, and they have the guy—the shooter—inside already.

Esposito is telling him lots of things. Too many things, and he can't hear half of them. _Literally or figuratively._

The thought stumbles through Castle's mind and he barks out a laugh. It jerks his head forward and back and he feels sick. That's all too literal. He dips his head between his knees. He smells tar and exhaust and swallows hard against the nausea.

Esposito stops telling him things, and for ten seconds it's a relief. Ten seconds only, and then Castle is grabbing at his coattails.

_Kate._

He grabs a fistful of Esposito's navy uniform coat and his hand recoils.

Esposito looks down at him in grim apology. Castle thinks he would panic about that if the world would stay still long enough. If he could hear anything or hold on to a thought long enough, he's pretty sure that look would have him freaking right the fuck out.

But the world won't stay still, and he literally can't hear much. He raises shaking fingers to the side of his head and comes away with blood. He remembers a clang. He looks to his right and there's a newspaper box with a wet-looking stain. He hit his head and his ears are ringing. He hit his head when he tackled the guy.

The shooter.

Kate. _Kate._

He tries to stand. _Oh._ He's sitting. That's why Esposito is so tall. He's sitting and that's why the things Esposito is trying to tell him are coming from so far away. Slower now. The words are slower, but he's still trying to tell Castle so many things and it's all so far away.

Castle tries to stand, but Esposito plants a heavy palm on his shoulder and sits down next to him on the curb. He says something about an ETA and sitting tight. It's in his voice, too. Grim apology, but he's calm. He's calm and he's just _sitting_ there on the curb. They're both just _sitting_ there when _Kate . . ._

He must say it out loud. Her name. He tries to get up again and Esposito snaps. He snaps. There are a lot of words in a row and fingers clamped on his shoulder, holding him down.

Castle snaps, too. He twists around his fist swings up and he knows it's a really bad idea before it's halfway there. He tries to pull the punch but the world is moving too much and Esposito just lets it land and it's agony.

It's agony. More than it should be. Punching people hurts _._ He's learned that over the last five years. Punching Esposito should hurt _a lot._ It should hurt in a lot of ways, but this is more. More than it should be. It's agony, and something is struggling to make sense. Some important detail is kicking its way upward and trying to make sense.

"Vest," Castle shouts it. Loud enough that he hears it in both ears. Loud enough that the workmen and the cops taking their statements startle and turn. "You're wearing a vest."

Esposito's face clouds and clears the next second. He gets it. He looks like he might invite Castle to hit him again.

"Beckett, too," Esposito says, loud and clear and ashamed. "Vest did its job, Castle."

Castle thinks he must not have mentioned it before now. In all the things he's been saying, Esposito must not have thought to mention that she's wearing a vest. That she's not bleeding out. That she doesn't have two holes in her chest. That she's not dying in front of someone else.

"Ryan?" He remembers something. He picks it out of the disorganized mess of half-heard things. "Ryan's with her?"

Esposito's jaw twitches. He nods and tries to sound casual. "Told you, bro. Just a bump on the head and a little cut or something. She wakes up, she's gonna be _pissed_ that we put her in an ambulance. Figured we'd let Ryan catch hell for that."

_When she wakes up._

Castle feels sick again. The world swims around him, heavy and loud and wonderful. Wonderful in comparison.

_When she wakes up._

He hangs his head between his knees again and breathes. He can breathe now. He can listen, and most of the things Esposito is saying make some kind of sense. Most of them make sense.

"Feels random," Esposito says carefully, and that doesn't make sense. The words do, but not the weight of them. Not the way he's laying them out so precisely. Not the way he's saying more than he's saying. Castle turns his head slowly, and Esposito sees the question. "Suicide by cop, probably. Some crazy. Don't know much, yet, but no reason to think he was going after Beckett."

That sinks in. It makes sense, and the world is heavier and lighter all at once. It's not Bracken. It's probably not Bracken. _Some crazy_. The world goes light and heavy again.

Some crazy could walk up and shoot her any day of the week.

"Why am I _here?_ " Castle looks around wildly and his head protests. The ringing gets louder and louder and there's black at the edges of his vision.

"Waiting on your ambulance." Esposito looks around, too. "Should be here by now, but they can't get closer than the corner."

Castle grabs his sleeve. "No ambulance."

"Hell yeah, ambulance." Esposito peels his fingers away.

"No ambulance," he repeats. He scrubs a hand over his scalp and regrets it instantly. It hurts. There's a bump and a disgusting mat of blood in his hair. Pain radiates out from it. "Javier."

"Dude, don't even." Esposito shakes a finger at him. "You look like you're about to puke. You think I'm gonna let Beckett kick my ass when you keel over from a concussion?"

"They won't let me see her," he says desperately. "If I go in the ambulance they'll be all 'How many fingers?' and shining lights in my eyes."

"Yeah, they will. 'Cause that's what you do when someone has a concussion." Esposito's using slow, loud English on him now.

Castle looks for somewhere to punch him that won't hurt so much, but it's no good. He needs to see her. He needs to see her and for that, he needs Esposito. Punching is not a good idea. Not that punching Esposito is ever a good idea.

"Javier," he says again. "I'll go . . . my head is killing me. I'll go. But after. I need to see her first."

Esposito rolls his eyes and hauls himself up from the curb. He extends a hand down to Castle and hauls him up, too.

"Fine. But you puke in my car? Concussion's gonna be the least of your problems."

* * *

She hates this nurse.

Everything is fuzzy and everything hurts. It feels like someone's kicking her in the chest every time she breathes and that's not helping the fuzziness. She can't get enough air and that's not helping at all.

It's slow, though. Her breath is shallow, but slow. It's not a panic attack. She has the thought and doesn't know why. She doesn't know why her mind went right to that. It's too hard to figure out, so she lets it go. She goes on breathing and wondering why it hurts so much.

She's hardly sure of anything, but she _really_ hates this nurse.

He keeps putting her back in the bed. She swings her legs to the side and she's going to get up any minute now. She stares down at what she hopes is the floor, and she just needs a fucking minute to remember which way is up. But he keeps putting her back in bed.

There's something she has to do. She needs to be up, because there's something she's supposed to be doing right now. She's told the nurse a dozen times already. In pieces, sure, but she's _told_ him about the thing she needs to do, and he keeps putting her back in bed. And he won't tell her what it is. He won't tell it back to her. Whatever it is she needs to do.

So, yeah, she really fucking hates this nurse.

He keeps putting her back in bed, but he won't leave her alone. Every time she closes her eyes, he's there. He's chattering in her ear about how she needs to stay awake. And he _pinched_ her. He pinched her _hard_ when she started to nod off anyway. She tried to slap him and she missed by a mile, and she _hates_ him.

The doctor comes and Ray— _Ray? His name is Ray?_ —smugly notes that he told her so. That she had to stay awake and the doctor would be there soon. Ray is _smug,_ but not for long. The doctor is snapping at him now. His name is definitely Ray and she holds on to that like it's some kind of victory.

It's fun. The doctor yelling at Ray is fun at first, and then it's not. Then it's loud and she just wants the doctor to shut up. But it goes on and on and she feels sorry for Ray. And then Ray drops way down on the list of people she hates, because it turns out the doctor is yelling at him for not getting her out of her vest.

The two of them tear at the velcro and the sound is _deafening_ and when they peel it away, it's like her blood is made of hammers and whatever Ray's faults, it wasn't his idea to get her out of the vest.

She shivers while the doctor pokes at her ribs. She shivers and grits her teeth. Ray gives her a sympathetic look hangs a blanket over the bed railing. She hates him a little less and the doctor a little more when he makes her sit up and move her head around.

The doctor asks her stupid questions and it hurts to focus—it hurts to do anything—but she answers them all. The doctor shines a light in her eyes about a million times and she really hates him now. Ray is an angel and she hates the doctor enough to wonder where her weapon is.

_Weapon._

It comes back to her. The guy had a weapon. She jerks away from the doctor and he yells at her. Quietly, but it's still yelling and how that works is way too complicated.

The guy was yelling, too. And he had a weapon. He already had it in his hand when he started yelling, and she wouldn't have been able to get to her own even if it hadn't been for the dress uniform and the stupid new holster. She wouldn't have been able to get to it before he shot her.

He _shot_ her.

She looks down at her chest and it's hideous. A spreading magenta pool with two furious epicenters and her scars. _Her scars._ Her fingers land on the darkest part of the new bruise, and she doubles over at the barest touch.

He _shot_ her. She'd never seen the guy before in her life and he _shot_ her. Twice.

"Castle!"

Ray whisks the curtain back and she wonders when he left. She wonders when the doctor left and how she got into a hospital gown. She wonders who tucked the blanket around her and why everything still hurts.

Ray tells her to take it easy and she starts to hate him again. He hands her Tylenol and a little water. And, seriously, _Tylenol?_ She feels like someone took a jackhammer to her from the waist up and he's giving her _Tylenol_. It's not even the Canadian good stuff.

She has a concussion. They must think she has a concussion.

She starts to hate Ray again, and it's not about the Tylenol. The Tylenol is . . . helping? It might be helping a little. And he gave her water. It's not about that. She starts to hate him again because he won't _listen_.

She needs to know where Castle is. He was right across the street. He saw her get _shot_. For all she knows, _he_ might've been shot. Her breath drags in and her heart is a sharp, agonizing report against her bruised ribs and that's a panic attack. It's at least a great start on one.

She needs to know where Castle is. She needs to see him, and Ray doesn't seem to give a shit about that.

He wheels a tray over next to the bed. He gives her something to throw up into if she needs it. He tells her to take it easy and says he's pretty sure no one else is shot. He's _pretty sure._ He grabs her around the calves and puts her back in bed and says that even if they were—even if someone else was shot—it's not her problem.

He tells her to rest. She shoots back something garbled about him pinching her, but Ray just waves as he pulls the curtain shut behind him. He tells her she's cleared to rest for short intervals and promises to be back to pinch her.

Yeah, Tylenol or no Tylenol, she hates Ray.

Her head falls back on the pillow. It hurts. Even that hurts.

She needs to find Castle, but everything hurts.

* * *

He is _so_ going to owe Esposito.

They march through the hospital corridors and no one— _no one_ —tries to stop them. He cleaned up as best he could with the first aid kit in the cruiser, but his collar is crusty with blood and his shoes reek of tar. Still, no one so much as questions them.

Security waves them through doors and nurses divert them to lower traffic hallways. No one asks any questions at all.

Castle wonders how much is the dress uniform and how much is just . . . Esposito.

He votes Esposito. He'll be damned if he owes that fucking uniform. He'll he damned if he owes it one fucking thing.

He's writing a check the first chance he gets. An endowment for new ones. The whole precinct. The whole force. Something in green or grey or puce or whatever. Anything but navy.

They turn a dozen corners and Castle is lost. He'd have sworn the signs put the ER behind them, but Esposito isn't slowing down. He trots to catch up and his head pounds.

He's better. The world isn't swimming anymore. He sidesteps a garbage can and barrels into a doorframe just as he thinks it. The world isn't swimming as _much._ And he can mostly hear again, though the sharp tweet that comes before the PA clicking on feels like it's drilling right into his brainstem.

He's better, but he's still lost and he's grateful that Esposito knows where he's going. Or at least looks enough like he knows that no one is stopping them.

He's waiting to lose it. He's waiting for déjà vu that doesn't come. For a blood trail on the floor with undulating wheel tracks in it. For the string of curses and pleas trailing after Lanie. He's waiting for the stitch in his side from running after the gurney taking her farther and farther from him. He waits for all of that and he's grateful for the pace Esposito sets. It leaves him no time to think, and he's grateful, even though his head is pounding.

It's not the same hospital. Maybe that's what nothing he's waiting for comes.

It's not the same hospital. It's closer. They took her to one right by the precinct. No level-I trauma center here. She didn't need it. She _doesn't_ need it. She was wearing a vest and she's fine. She's going to be fine.

They make it all the way through the swinging ER doors before they run into any resistance at all. A tiny blonde nurse puts herself in Esposito's path. Espo snaps his uniform jacket at her, flashing his shield, and she snags him by the elbow.

Esposito pulls up short. Castle blinks, impressed.

The nurse asks where the hell they think they're going. Esposito says they have a detective who was brought in less than an hour ago and he needs a status report for the Captain. The nurse folds her arms. She's _not_ impressed. With Esposito _or_ the uniform. She doesn't blink.

"We both know that information goes out to his family only, Detective."

" _Her_ family," Esposito shoots back. It's pointed, and it works. The nurse blinks. He presses the advantage.

"This is the husband right here." Esposito jerks a thumb over his shoulder

Castle just stands there. _Husband_. He blinks again. _Husband._ He's still standing there.

Esposito glares at him. He doesn't turn. He's still facing the nurse. But he's glaring at Castle just the same. _Husband._

"It's . . . yes. It's ok. My . . ." He feels the smile spreading over his face. He can't help it. It has to look strange under the circumstances, but he can't help it. He's _the husband._ "My wife would want— _will_ want—Detective Esposito kept in the loop."

The nurse eyes them both skeptically. They're losing her. Castle can see it. Any minute, she's going to check forms or call somebody and they're going to keep him away from her. The world gets heavy again he lets it show.

 _Jim._ He'd be her next of kin. It's not the same hospital and Castle can't think how that would work. How they would know who to call, but it would be Jim if they did. His chest squeezes and his head pounds. They'll call Jim. Some doctor or a terrifying little nurse will call and say his daughter's been shot and he . . . he doesn't want that. That shouldn't happen.

He can't let that happen. He should be the one to call her father. He wants to be. He wants to start out with the news that she's ok and explain what happened. He wants to smooth over the details and give him assurances that she's not alone. That she'll never be alone.

"Please," he says quietly and the unsteady tone is real. "Can I see my wife? I was there. I watched . . . I just need to know for myself that she's ok. Can you . . . Esposito?"

"Got it handled. Gonna hunt up Ryan and head back to the precinct. Let the Captain know Beckett's ok. See about our guy." He raises his eyebrow at the blonde. "Nurse?"

Castle moves forward. Like it's already settled. It is. It's settled, and nurse or no nurse, he's three seconds away from going curtain to curtain until he finds her.

But the nurse scowls and moves to a nearby counter. She shuffles clipboards and Esposito lets out a breath while her head is down.

Castle lays his hand briefly on his shoulder. "Thank you."

Esposito gives him a curt nod.

"She's doing well, Mr. Beckett."

"Castle." He bites his tongue a second too late. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Esposito shaking his head. "She . . . uh . . . my wife kept her name."

The nurse gives him a sharp look and he holds his breath. Her head drops back to the chart and he lets it out.

"Thoracic bruising, of course. Grade Three concussion, but that's because she lost consciousness. No obvious cognitive effects. Reflexes good." The nurse raises her head. "They probably won't be able to get her in for a CT until later, and I suspect they'll want to keep her overnight . . ."

Esposito lets out a snort. "Little woman's not gonna be happy about _that_ , Castle."

"Not gonna be happy when I tell her you called her 'the little woman,' either," he shoots back. He's grinning. Esposito is, too, and he wonders if he's half as terrifying. Castle turns to the nurse. "I can see her?"

She checks the chart and gives him a number. "Your wife is in Exam Room 12."

She gestures, but Castle is already gone.

 _His wife_.

He skids to a halt in front of the curtain. There's just a curtain. "Exam Room" is an overstatement and the place is loud. He takes the curtain in his hands and spreads it as quietly as he can, but the metal rings clatter and he winces. Everything's so _loud._

The second he sees her, he knows he's going to do something stupid.

The dark circles rimming her eyes are the only color in her face, and her forehead is lined with pain. The blanket barely rises and falls with her breath and he knows he's going to do something stupid.

He stands there with a fistful of curtain in each hand and doesn't make a sound. He doesn't think he makes a sound, but her eyelids twitch and flutter open. He's still standing there.

It takes her a second to focus, but the corners of her mouth turn up and some of the lines let go. She lets out a breath with his name on it. Her eyes drift shut again, but she's still smiling and he is _definitely_ going to do something stupid.

"I love you." He's at her side with no idea how he got there. No idea how he closed the space between the curtain and her. He's leaning over the bed, and his hands flutter uselessly above her face and over her shoulders. She's still smiling a little, but it looks like everything hurts and he's afraid to touch her.

"I love you," he says again. Not necessarily because he wants to. Not necessarily because he thinks it's a good idea. Because he has to. He has to, and he probably should explain. "I wanted to say that before. The first time I saw you. . . After. In the hospital. Last time. When I saw you in the hospital, I wanted to say it more than anything. And this time . . . I'm . . . I guess I'm getting it out of the way. So, I love you."

His jaw shuts with a snap and he closes his eyes. His hands are afraid, but his mouth isn't, apparently.

He hopes that it. The stupid thing he knew he was going to do. He hopes it is and he knows it isn't. He knows he has not yet begun to do stupid things.

He opens his eyes and she's staring up at him. She's chewing the inside of her lip. Considering him. She waits for him to look at her. She waits until she has his attention. She says his name and he moves closer.

She pats the bed and he sinks down. Just his hip and thigh and he's sort of hovering. It's awkward but he's afraid everything hurts and he doesn't want to jostle her. His hands are still afraid.

She gives him a look and says his name again. He laughs and wonders how many different ways she can say his name. He'd like to find out. He's _determined_ to find out.

For the moment, though, he compromises and moves down by her knees. There's a little more room for them both there. He settles in.

Her eyes close and she turns her hand over on the blanket. A demand, and he's happy to comply. He rests his own palm on top of hers. Her fingers curl and lace between his, and he finally feels like he can breathe again.

She says his name, and he murmurs, "I'm here."

She tells him she's tired. That everything hurts. That she hates someone named Ray and she hates the doctor more. He listens. He holds her hand and tries not to laugh. It's disjointed and every third word seems to be his name. He's ok with that. He's making a list of all the ways she can say his name, and he's more than ok with that.

Her voice gets fainter, and he panics a little. She was sleeping when he got here. He thinks she was, anyway, and they left her alone. No one's been by, so it must be ok if she sleeps. It must be, but . . .

She says his name. It's sharp this time and she tells him she's cleared to rest for short intervals. It's . . . specific. It sounds like she's quoting someone, so it must be ok, but he doesn't know what a short interval is.

He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until he sees the frown. Until he sees she's looking at him and she's annoyed and he feels _so_ much better, because it's normal. It's so _normal_.

She says his name and tells him not to complicate things. He's about to protest. He's about to argue with her because he's so _relieved_. He's about to argue with her—with her concussion really—when her eyes open wide and clear.

"Eighty-seven minutes," she says. "Eighty-seven minutes is a short interval."

"How'd you figure that, Beckett?" It's too tempting. He should shut his mouth. He should leave her alone and let her sleep, but it's just too tempting.

She looks him like he's an idiot. "Ninety minutes is long."

He laughs softly. It's normal, and he's weak with relief. "Can't argue with that. Eighty-seven minutes. Sleep, Kate."

She does. He thinks she does, but there's his name again she makes him promise not to pinch. He resists the urge to clarify that this is a concussion-only rule. He resists and promises not to pinch.

She settles. She says his name. She tells him something or extracts a promise and settles again. It happens half a dozen times, with more and more minutes stretching out between them until the last. Almost the last.

"Castle," she says and _thank you_ comes a little while after.

He shushes her. Lulls her with soft syllables and strokes his fingers over her wrist because that seems ok. That doesn't seem to hurt.

"Castle," she says one last time and it stands alone. It doesn't come with a question or a story or something she wants him to promise.

It's just his name, and this time, it sounds like _I love you, too._

* * *

Ray wakes her up.

He's not pinching her. At least he's not pinching her.

He's talking to himself, though. That's what woke her up.

He's loud and bossy and she wants to yell at him. She wants to tell him to take his soliloquy outside and she wonders about the word. She wonders where that came from, but mostly she wants to yell at Ray.

It's off the table. Yelling probably, and soliloquy for sure. Her mouth is dry and sticky all at once. She wants to open her eyes so she can at least glare, but they're crusted shut. She hurts everywhere, and she thinks she must have been crying in her sleep.

Now she _really_ wants to yell at Ray. Him and his stupid Tylenol.

She raises her hand to rub the sleep from her eyes. To pry them open. She _tries_ to raise her hand, but there's something in it. Something heavy and warm and a wave of tension rolls out of her body. It takes some of the pain with it.

Ray's not talking to himself. He's yelling at Castle. It's comforting. It's the most comforting thing she can imagine at the moment.

 _Castle_. She tugs on his hand. _His hand._ That's the heavy thing in hers and that's good. The bed shifts as he follows. She tugs the knot of their twined fingers up under her chin. She holds up the weight just over her chest and tries to make words come out of her mouth.

She tries. She moves her heavy tongue against her teeth. Side to side and up and down and she thinks she can make this work. For one or two words, she thinks she can make this work. She thinks. She tries to think, but it takes so much energy that she feels herself fading out again. She's fading out and she wants to say something first.

"Castle." She's proud of that. His name with all the letters in place. She feels good about that, and it gives her the strength to pull his hand in close. She brushes his knuckles just over the scar between her breasts—just barely—and braces for the pain. It comes and she grits her teeth, but it's not as bad.

It's not as bad and she feels like she can do anything. She can certainly give him more words. Just one or two. She doesn't think about it. She doesn't waste the energy. "Not dying."

"Not dying," he says it over and over again.

She can hear the grin in his voice. She can feel the relief pouring over her as his lips brush her forehead and _oh_ , that's incredible. So much better than Tylenol. So much better than stupid Ray.

"There. You've talked to her," Ray says. _Stupid Ray._ "Now you have to _leave_."

Stupid Ray sounds pissy. It makes her smile.

It _would_ make her smile if she could move her mouth at all. But the words really took it out of her and she can't. She can't move her mouth right now, so she lies back and enjoys it. The low rumble of Castle's voice and his hand in hers. The dip of the bed to one side of her and a lone spot of warmth.

She's freezing. She realizes she's freezing, and something about that must make it out of her mouth. She hates that she wasted words on it, but she's freezing. Castle's volume notches up and then there's the blessed relief of another blanket settling over her and she has to admit it might have been worth it.

He's talking to her. Ray's voice drones on in the background, but Castle is talking to _her_ like Ray doesn't exist _._ If she had more words to waste, she'd tell Ray to suck it, but she doesn't.

Right now, she doesn't have any words to waste, so she lets Castle's wash over her. Something about eighty-seven minutes. That makes her want to smile, too, but she can't remember why.

His voice drops low again and she loses the words. But he hates Ray, too. She can tell, and she's never loved him more.

She should tell him that. That's what she should have told him. It's what she should have used her words on, instead wasting them. _Not dying_. Of course she's not dying. No one's dying, because that would be _stupid._

She squeezes his hand because it feels urgent. She should tell him that she loves him, but even with him bending over her now, even with his breath warming her cheek and his words in her ear, she can't really make her mouth work.

She squeezes his hand, and his arm slides behind her neck. She braces for the pain and it's there. It's there but it's not as bad, either. Not with the bulky certainty of him cradling her. He sits her up a little and there's something hovering right in front of her lips, something flicking and elusive and _annoying._

She picks the word _Water_ out and manages to crack one eye open a little and then the other what feels like hours later. She tries to look at him, but he's too close. Her eyes cross and he laughs. She'll get him for that. Later, she'll get him for that.

But right now there's this thing at her lips that turns out to be a straw and Castle's voice is persuasive in her ear. He's coaching her through something that should be easy, but she's so tired. She's so tired, but she tries anyway. Cool water floods her mouth and slips down her throat. It's amazing.

She smiles and feels some of it dribble down her chin. Castle's laughing again. He dabs at her skin with something rough and she hates him a little for laughing. She hates him for making her keep track of another thing she'll have to get him for later.

He eases her head back on the pillow and it hurts so much less than before. So much less that it's practically euphoria. It's heavy and intoxicating and she's falling backward. She squeezes his hand and tries to stay with him, but it's no use. She's falling.

She hears Ray again. His voice is pinched and sharp and annoyed. _Pissy_ , she thinks, and that has her bobbing back up again.

She hears Castle. _Stubborn._ That's Castle's stubborn voice, and she almost feels sorry for Ray. Whatever Ray wants, he's not going to get it.

She thinks about saying it. Ray's not _so_ bad and she'd like to save him the trouble. She'd like him to shut up, too. She'd like to save them all the trouble and she thinks she has a couple more words now.

She licks her lips, and thinks about the shape of the words. _Don't bother._ That's what she's about to say, but Castle's voice cuts in, low and sharp and absolutely clear.

"Thank you, but I'm staying with my wife."

Her brain grinds to a halt and she expects it to hurt any second now, but it doesn't. _Wife._ She holds the curious word in the center of her mind and it doesn't hurt. It's strange, but it doesn't hurt. It's still, then it's in motion. It tumbles through the center of her mind and she sees it from any number of angles. None of them makes any sense.

Her tongue changes course and she feels her eyes open. She feels them blink and the image in front of her clears.

 _Castle._ He's not so close now and there's just one of him. Just the one, and he looks terrified.

"Castle," she says and she hopes it's . . . comforting? Reassuring? Something like that. He looks terrified and he shouldn't. She'd tell him that, but she's falling backward again and she thinks she only has one word.

"Wife," she says.

One word before she falls backward into sleep.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Couple things.
> 
> First, I was talking with my dad about dress uniforms in my stealthy, on-the-down-low-type way, he reminded me that when vests became the daily standard (as they were not for most of his career), they were required for dress inspection, too, and they had to be worn under both coat and shirt. Chafey! My mom made him a cover for the vest out of one of his worn daily use uniform shirts, a convention that took off in his district. Most likely to the annoyance of other spouses who suddenly found themselves expected to make them. He had to buy a whole new dress uniform once the vest was required, because the old didn't fit over it. He always complained that the new dress uniform never did fit right.
> 
> Second, at this point I should acknowledge and thank the anonymous prompter on Tumblr. I've held off doing that for somewhat obvious reasons, but here is what sparked this story:
> 
> "If you take anonymous prompts, I'd love to see a fanfic about Beckett getting shot during an ambush, Castle witnessing and can't get to her, and he doesn't realize she has her vest on with her unconscious body with him obviously freaking out. Then maybe some smut later for reaffirming life, cause that's the best kind!"
> 
> I make no promises on the life-affirming smut front, but Brain obviously liked the general idea. And I am clearly not to blame for shooting Beckett in the chest. Let's all remember that.


	6. The Pilgrim Soul in You

He spends the first eighty-seven minutes wondering what the hell Ray's deal is and ignoring his impending doom.

Ray is an asshole. And a really good nurse. Obviously a really good nurse, despite what Castle suspects is an overburdened, understaffed ER. He's brusque and unflappable and completely immune to any kind of wheedling. He's efficient and responsive about things that matter, and he has no problem telling patients and family alike that wasting his time will not make things happen any faster.

It's a combination that's aggravating enough to border on super-villainy and Castle passes the time writing origin stories in his head. Right now he's leaning toward extreme bullying in nursing school paired with a lab accident that left his personality trapped in a latex coating, inaccessible to mere humans.

He toys with the idea of the tiny blonde nurse as a love interest—unrequited, of course, on account of the personality latex—but it's no good. Ray is unlovable, latex-encased personality or no.

Ray may be unlovable, but he's not really Castle's problem. Impending doom is his real problem

_Wife_.

He had assumed she was asleep. A sip of water and a handful of words had clearly taken it out of her, and then Ray was trying to make him leave for no good reason, and it just made _sense_ to play the wife card.

It's a perfectly plausible story. A logical explanation for why he's casually claiming her as his wife. Esposito might even back him up. _Might_. A promise to keep the "little woman" thing just between the two of them would probably go a long way toward securing backup.

Not that he should really need back up. If he were able play it casual, he wouldn't need it. It makes perfect sense, and it might even give him a stay of impending doom if just he explains it to her that way. It might save him if he plays it casual.

It might save him if it weren't a lie.

But it is. It doesn't really matter how it started. It's a lie that Ray and Esposito and the tiny blond nurse have much at all to do with it.

_Wife._

He likes the word. He _loves_ it. He looks down at her, clutching his hand tight and resting a little easier—he thinks, he _hopes_ —because he's there. He looks down at her, and he loves thinking of her as his wife. It took him all of three minutes and the length of a hallway to fall completely in love with the thought.

He can tell her that it was Esposito's idea in the first place. That he just played along. He can blame the tiny blonde nurse for wanting to keep him away and Ray wanting to make him leave. He can say all kinds of plausible things and wave it off as the most expedient plan, given the circumstances.

But it's a lie and she'll know.

It's a lie and he doesn't want to tell it.

He wants to tell her that he loves the word. He wants to tell her that he loves thinking of her as his wife.

That's new. That's absolutely new.

He's always loved asking. He's been stewing on that point for weeks now, but this is new. He's never loved thinking of someone as his wife.

He hasn't _not_ loved it. It's just . . . never come up. His stomach churns at that and it's got nothing to do with the concussion he may or may not have.

He's been married twice, and it's never come up.

With Meredith, it wasn't really about being married. It wasn't about her being his wife and him being her husband. Married was just an aside. It was about the baby—about Alexis—and blank-eyed panic. About trying to reconcile parenthood with their ferocious love–hate attraction and the stupid, _stupid_ things they did. It was about not being ready for any of it.

He was _so_ not ready to be a father and he had to be. He was _determined_ to be. He made it happen. He's proud of that, and he'd make that choice all over again.

But it meant there wasn't really time to worry about being a husband. There wasn't really time to love having a wife, and maybe it would never have happened with Meredith. Probably not. It's Meredith, and . . . well, probably not. But there was never any time.

With Gina . . . he's still not sure what he was thinking with Gina. He's not sure what either of them was thinking, except that there were good things between them a lot of the time.

They worked well together, and he was tired. After half a dozen years of living the persona and building a reputation, he was tired. And all of a sudden Alexis was too old to shield from it the way he always had. She was ten and twelve and a teenager and Gina was there. She was smart and attractive and they got along in a lot of ways. They still get along in a lot of ways, even if a lot of those ways involve her yelling at him.

They agreed that it was a smart move. A good move. But they never talked about it. About what she meant and what he meant. What it meant to be married. They never talked about, but it was fine for a while. It made a kind of sense to be married right up until it didn't make any sense at all.

He thinks about the word. _Wife._ He tries to hear it in his mind. In his own voice and it's strange. He hears himself talking about Meredith. He hears himself say _my ex-wife_ and _Alexis's mother_. It's all he can hear. He wonders if he ever called her his wife.

And it was an actual thing with Gina. _My publisher,_ he'd say and she laughed at first. They both laughed about how it would take some getting used to. They'd worked together for a decade by then, and of course it would take some getting used to.

But he never did. He never got used to it, and then it was a thing. The reflexive _my publisher_ or the hesitation before trailing off on just her name. More hesitation when he pulled up short and said it. _My wife._ Because it was a thing, and by then there were a lot of things. A lot of ways he could go wrong.

He thinks about the word and feels like an idiot. Words matter. He of all people should know that, but it's new. The thought is entirely new. It's important. It's a new piece to this stupid puzzle. It's the piece that makes everything clear to him.

He loves thinking of Kate as his wife.

It's not about asking and rings and people in his head or hers. It's not about everyone on the sidelines and what they expect. It's not about pressure and warnings and the next step. It's about every step after that.

It's about his name on forms and there being no question that he gets to be by her side. It's about him being the one to call her father when she pulls through another near-death experience and another and another. It's about her being there for Alexis if anything happens to him.

It's about the heart-stopping knowledge that some crazy could walk up and shoot her any day of the week and the certainty that he doesn't want to waste any more time with "better" and dancing around each other so carefully.

It's about the fact that the right thing to do—the only thing he _can_ do now—is tell her that he's sure. That he's in love with the idea of her as his wife. All he can do is tell her and listen to what she says—what she wants—and see where that takes them.

It's all he can do, but this is the worst possible way to start this conversation. He knows that. He knows this is the worst possible place and time.

She has a concussion. He probably has a concussion, too, and he doesn't like the way Ray is looking at him. Like he suspects. Like he's going to whip out a pen light and make Castle recite the Vice Presidents in reverse chronological order any minute now. Probably the minute _after_ they start the conversation, because Ray is a super-villain level asshole and that's how he rolls.

Ray is just one of a thousand reasons why this is the worst possible place and time to start this conversation.

She just got _shot._

His free hand—the one she's not clinging to—skims along the gaping neck of her hospital gown. His fingertips hover over her skin, not quite touching the angry-looking bruise bleeding all the way up to her collar bone now. He can't see the scar, but he feels it. He feels it pulling and pushing and radiating urgency.

She just got shot.

He's not sure where to file that. If that's an argument for letting the conversation lie a while or for taking the fucking karmic hint.

Because she just got shot, and it's the kind of conversation he's bound to screw up at the best of times, no matter how sure he is. No matter how clearly he hears it in his mind. _My wife._

Because she just got shot, and he does not have a great track record with confessions under those circumstances.

Because she just got shot and he has _experience_ with making confessions under those circumstances.

Because she just got shot, and he had to fight his way in here just to make the same confession all over again.

All the reasons start to look the same. Arguments for and arguments against and his head hurts. Probably because he has a concussion.

He wonders if this is it. If this is the stupid thing he knew he was going to do the minute he saw her. He wonders if he should go. If he should let Ray kick him out to save them both from stupid things.

He drops his forehead against the knot of their hands and a little of the pain bleeds away at the touch of her skin on his. He wonders how much of the eighty-seven minutes he's eaten up with origin stories and worry and pros and cons, but he doesn't want to let go long enough to fish out his phone and check the timer.

He wonders if doom will come after this eighty-seven minutes or the next or the next. He wonders when she'll be awake long enough to remember.

It suddenly occurs to him that she might not. She might not remember. She has a concussion and she might not remember a thing. She might not remember his clumsy _I love you_. She was practically asleep and she might not remember it: _I'm staying with my wife._ She might not remember saying the word back to him.

It's a gut punch. The very idea that she might not remember. That she _genuinely_ might not remember this time. It's a gut punch.

He knows then. He knows it's the worst possible time and the worst possible place to start this conversation.

He knows he's going to do something stupid.

* * *

He doesn't wake her. Not right away, and she thinks he wasn't planning on it at all.

She hears his phone all the way from his pocket. It's miles away and right in her ear at the same time. The buzz and a strange, tumbling clunk and she knows—she _knows—_ that he set a timer. She opens her eyes and he swims into focus and she can tell. He set a timer because he promised, but he was thinking about not waking her at all.

"Eighty-seven, Castle." Her tongue works better this time. That's a lot of syllables and it only hurts a little bit. "You promised."

He laughs and tells her that she's up to moderate intervals. That Ray has cleared her for multiples of eighty-seven. That he'll probably get in trouble if Ray catches her awake right now, because it's only just been eighty-seven minutes.

He laughs and his hands find the places that don't hurt. Her wrists, but not her elbows. Her forehead and the tip of her chin, but not her temples and nowhere near the place where her skull meets her spine. Her hip bone and the line that sweeps below her navel, right where the pain ends.

He laughs and touches her and it's such a relief. It's such a relief that he's there. That no one shot him and he knows she's ok. It's a relief, but it's not quite right.

It's wrong, in fact.

There's something wrong with the way his breath stutters. Even when he's laughing. Even when he's being careful not to give her too many words at a time, he has to work at it. He has to work at breathing, and it's not just too many words he's afraid of giving her. It's something specific. There's something he's not saying, and it's wrong.

There's something wrong with the way his pulse is jumping just where his watch should be. When she makes her own fingers work, she can tell there's something wrong. When they close around his wrist and she feels it, quick and urgent against her fingertips, and she wonders if she can find the thing he's not saying there. She wonders if she works hard enough if she'll know just from his blood pounding against her skin what it is.

There's something wrong with the way his eyes are raking over her. Devouring her in some new way, and she's a mess. She must be such a mess.

"You're not a mess," he scoffs, so she guesses she said that out loud.

She has to stop wasting words. Her tongue works and her head's a little clearer, but she's so tired. She's already falling asleep again. She has to stop wasting words if she's going to get him to tell her what's wrong. She doesn't want him worrying another eighty-seven minutes away. She doesn't want him to spend some multiple of eighty-seven worrying alone.

"You're not a mess," he says again. He's letting the words come now. He's letting them crowd in front of whatever he's trying not to say. "You're gorgeous, Beckett. Your hotness transcends fluorescent lights and hospital gowns."

She laughs. She snorts or something, and that's a mistake. That hurts and she's scaring him. That's part of what's wrong. He watched her get shot and he's scared.

"Don't be scared. Not dying, Castle." It's not what she wanted to say. The first part, yes. She doesn't want him to be scared. She doesn't want something to be wrong. But the second part is not what she wanted to say. The second part annoys her. She frowns and that hurts, too.

He jerks back. He pulls away like he's afraid it's him—he's afraid that he's hurting her—and she has to chase his hand. She has to open her eyes even though the lights are trying to kill her. She has to lift her arm and it's like a cannon ball just dropped on to her chest.

But she does it. She finds his hand and pulls it down to the bed. Snug against her side. It's as much contact as she can stand. She mutters something, and he's apologizing, but it's not him, it's her.

She opens her eyes and winces against the light, but then his hand is there, shading her eyes. It's the best feeling in the world, that sudden relief from the light and the way he knows her.

"Oh, that's perfect," she murmurs and wishes she had the strength to kiss him.

She presses her thumb into his palm and hopes he knows. She thinks about telling him, but it seems like another waste of words. She wants to kiss him. What's the point in saying that? She always wants to kiss him and he knows that. He's _smug_ about that most of the time.

But there's something else. Something he doesn't know or he might not know, anyway. It hurts her head thinking about it and she's tempted to give in to sleep. She's tempted to save it for the next eight-seven minutes.

But his pulse is going crazy and hers is a leaden, sluggish thing against his. It misses the beat of his every time and it bothers her. The way they're out of sync bothers her, and she remembers that something is wrong. She kind of hates him for making her work so hard right now. She wants him to tell her what it is. She wants to know what he's not saying.

She says some of that out loud. She hopes she doesn't say all of it. Not the hating part, because she doesn't. But she says enough of that out loud that he tells her it's nothing. That it can wait. That it's ok for her to sleep again. But it's not.

She's annoyed. She swears at him for saying it's ok, because it's not. She concentrates and it _hurts._ It hurts and that must show on her face.

It's not ok. He's trying so hard. He's panicking a little now and it's slipping away. Whatever he's not saying is slipping further away, and she's panicking, too.

She grabs his thumb. She makes her muscles cooperate. It hurts. They all hurt, but she's used to that kind of pain, and it gives her focus now. It filters out the noise of the ER and Ray and the soothing nonsense Castle's been using to keep her calm. It filters it all out and leaves one thing.

She drags his hand to her lips and kisses the tip of his thumb and the words are there all of a sudden. His words in her memory and hers on her lips right now.

"Hey. Castle. I love you, too."

* * *

He can't let go of her for the next eighty-seven minutes. He's stunned and ecstatic and frozen and most likely prone to blubbering in a very, _very_ unmanly way if he moves too far away or tries to talk.

He knew. He really did. She tells him all the time. Not in so many words, but it's always been their way to say things without saying them. That's not a cop out. It's not an excuse for either of them, because they don't need one. She tells him all the time and he knew.

It doesn't bother him that she's never said it. It doesn't bother him that he's only said it twice. Three times if he counts his stammering performance tonight. He supposes he has to now. He supposes he should.

_Hey. Castle. I love you, too._

It doesn't bother him that he's only said it once when he was sure she could hear. Only once when she was looking him in the eye.

He's careful about it, and if he regrets anything—if anything bothers him about the words and who's said them and when—it's that she doesn't really know that. She couldn't really know that he's careful about it. That Alexis is the only one he's in the habit of saying it to.

It's another thing he and Kate don't really talk about, and he _does_ regret that. That she doesn't know how it weighs heavy on him. She doesn't know that he's said it when he knew it wasn't true—he's said it because there's a point when you're supposed to—and every time he's packed away again, the words have felt like they mean a little less.

He's been careful about it for a long time. Even with his mother, it's for special occasions.

He wants to say it to her all the time. He feels like with her, the words would never lose their luster. Like they would never be usual. They'd never be _just_ something he says.

He's careful with the words, and neither of them has said in the last year, and it doesn't bother him.

It doesn't _exactly_ bother him.

It balances on the edge of something remarkable and forbidden. They're too momentous for everyday use. For her, he thinks they are. She's not someone who would say them lightly. She'd never spend them like loose change or the last crumpled bill.

And she tells him in her way. In the grateful smile she takes time for when she's hip deep in a case and and he brings her coffee. In the way she comes home and climbs into bed next to him, no matter how late it is. The way she throws herself into downtime and plays like a kid. All year, she's been telling him in her way.

But hearing it matters.

Saying it matters.

Words matter, and he can't let go of her for the next eighty-seven minutes.

He only lets go of her after that because the alarm is going off. It doesn't wake her this time, and he shoves the worry down. Ray told him to expect this. He said she'd probably sleep more deeply. That it was a good sign and she needs her rest and he was _not_ to wake her every eight-seven damned minutes no matter what stupid promise he made.

The buzz of the alarm doesn't wake her, even though it's loud. Even though it's clunking against the ridiculous bubble from the gum ball machine. Even though it's clunking against the ring.

He closes his hand around it—the ridiculous bubble—and knows he has things to do.

He kisses her fingers and untangles his own. He sets the timer for another eighty-seven minutes and eases himself off the bed. He leans over her and whispers that he'll be close. That he'll be just outside and he'll wake her after the next eighty-seven minutes, no matter what Ray says.

He ducks silently through the curtain and holds up the precarious wall between exam rooms while he calls Jim.

Jim is Jim. He's steady and unexcitable, and it strikes Castle how well he's gotten to know the man over the last year. Well enough to hear the worry deep beneath his sparse, sensible questions. Castle is grateful for it. He's grateful for the steadiness and for someone to share the worry with.

He sticks to the facts. _Yes, she's fine, not just pretending to be fine. Yes, they're keeping her overnight. I stand corrected: They're going to_ try _to keep her overnight. No, I did not call to blurt out a desperate, incoherent request for your daughter's hand._

He keeps the last part to himself, and he's pretty proud of that. He's tired and possibly concussed and it was touch and go when Jim thanked him for being there—for taking care of her and for calling him—in his quiet, sincere way. But there's stupid and then there's _stupid,_ and if Kate decides to kill him tonight, it's going to be for the right reasons. For the right kind of stupid.

He has half a dozen texts from Esposito. The guy—the shooter—is exactly what he seemed to be. He has a long history of mental illness and nothing else interesting about him. He lives a few blocks from the twelfth and he's never heard of Beckett. It was all just a matter of convenience.

It was _convenient_ to shoot her.

He's staring down at the screen trying to wrap his mind around that when Ray ambushes him.

Despite hours spent contemplating Ray's origin story—multiples of eighty-seven minutes wondering what makes him tick—Castle realizes that he has seriously underestimated the man. It's a total fucking ambush.

Ray snatches the phone right out of his hand. Castle's mouth is still hanging open and Ray already has him by the biceps. Castle protests, but Ray points to one of the several hundred signs indicating that cell phones are prohibited inside the ER. Ray hustles him away from Exam Room 12 to an Exam Room with a number that is very far away from 12. It turns out it's worse than an ambush: It's a conspiracy.

The tiny blonde nurse is there and Ray hands Castle and his phone over to her, her clipboard, and lots of cold-looking stainless steel things. She's there with a pen light and gauze and torn-open packages of something horrible smelling. She's there with a barrage of questions about the shooting and current events and he _knew_ he didn't like the way Ray had been looking at him.

She's worse than Ray. She's so much worse than Ray that Castle keeps forgetting she has a name. It's Rose or something equally unlikely. He keeps forgetting it and he thinks of her as the Nameless One, too cold and unfeeling to retain any evidence that she might have had a mother once or anyone who would have given her a name.

She makes him fill out forms. She ignores him when he tells her she can't have it both ways: Either he's concussed and too incoherent for paperwork, or he's fine and she can stop shining the damned light in eyes and let him get back to Kate. She can let him get back to his wife.

She ignores him and dabs at the cut above his ear with something that must come from her cold, unfeeling home planet. He's no stranger to wounds. He's more about enthusiasm than coordination and questionable judgement is kind of his thing, so he's quite familiar wounds, big and small, and the wide variety of antiseptics that go with him. But nothing he has ever encountered has _burned_ and _stung_ and fucking _hurt_ like whatever she just poured directly into his bloodstream.

She's _so much_ worse than Ray, but she's efficient. A doctor shows up and the Nameless One gives him the run down. He repeats a few of the tests. The light, of course, because it's the most endless and painful and maddening of all tests. The President and the date and his address. A few things about the shooting that have his stomach churning, but it's over quickly. The doctor calls out Grade Two, signs a couple of things and goes on his way.

Castle pushes up from the exam table and the Nameless One pushes him back down. She's either freakishly strong or the day's events and a Grade Two concussion are taking their toll. Probably both. She _did_ stop Esposito in his tracks, so there's obviously some kind of science-based accident at work there. Maybe when Ray's personality was lost behind the latex curtain.

The alarm on his phone buzzes again and he gets a little agitated. He tries to twist away from her, but her fingers are like iron. He tries to protest that he's fine, but she has superpowers of ignoring. He tries to tell her to stop poking at his _bump_ and she manages to slap some ridiculous bandage over the still-trickling cut over his ear.

She shoves Tylenol and a cup of water into his hands and tells him that no, he can't have his phone back. She smirks and says that he is, however, free to go back to his "wife." Castle bristles at the sarcastic quote marks. He's defensive about his imaginary marriage, and he doesn't care how ridiculous that is.

He doesn't care, but he bites back a retort anyway. He's not wasting time on the Nameless One. He missed the eighty-seven-minute mark. He wasn't going to wake her, but he should have been there, and he's not wasting a minute more _not_ being there.

He downs the pills with a gulp of water and makes his way back toward Exam Room 12. He's grumbling to himself about how much farther away they could have taken him and wondering how he can possibly still be in the same hospital, let alone still in the ER. He's grumbling and wondering how the hell he's going to get his phone back.

He's grumbling and then he's not. He stops grumbling abruptly. Something catches his attention. Something snags at him and pulls him forward. He breaks into a clumsy run as it registers, the thing that has him running.

It's Kate.

It's Beckett and she's yelling.

  



	7. Wander

She feels good the next time she wakes up. For all of forty-five seconds she feels good. She opens her eyes and it's not an Olympic-level event. She just tells her eyelids to open and they do, and there's nothing more painful beyond the darkness of her eyelids than the dim glow of the monitors. She feels good.

It's partly the contrast. She's in so much less pain now, and the contrast is amazing.

The pounding in her head has eased off to the point it's hardly there and she's starting to feel like her neck is made of separate bones again.

It's partly that she knows how much more it _could_ hurt. How much more it hurt last time. _Last time._

She pushes the thought away and concentrates on her body. Her chest is still a mess, but she can wiggle her shoulders now and there's a kind of exquisite pleasure in breathing deeper and deeper into the sore places. It's bruising and the pull of abused muscle. It's not shattered places, punctured sliced. Torn apart and sewn back together so they feel too small.

She feels good and she holds on to that.

It's partly that someone finally thought to turn off the goddamn lights, and the noise of the ER seems to have faded to a distant, efficient hum.

It's partly that she slept. She doesn't know for how long, but she really slept this time, dark and even and deep. No clawing to the surface and falling back. She slept.

She lets her eyes close again and the panicked, out-of-control feeling is gone. She's tired—she's still dead tired—but it's not pulling at her anymore. She's not sinking and sinking and tied to anchor when she tries to kick up toward her body. She can sleep when she wants to.

She lets her eyes close and she listens. Monitors beep and announcements come and go and they're all in their place. Near and far and in the middle distance. They're not all crowded around her, pouring directly into her ears and making her brain throb against the confines of her skull.

It's partly because she's better—because she feels good—but she thinks it's late, too. She thinks it's quieter because it's late, but she doesn't have her phone and she hasn't seen a clock in God knows how long, but something tells her it's really late.

She turns her wrist up and she's proud of that. She's proud of the way her arm works as a whole unit until she realizes she doesn't have her watch. Her watch is at home.

_Not regulation._

She thinks about the uniform. She thinks about the line of navy and most of the day on her feet. She thinks about Castle across the street and how _annoyed_ she was that she couldn't get to him right away. How annoyed she was by the gaping hole between him and her and the fact that someone was yelling. Someone wouldn't shut up.

She remembers the shooter raising the gun and the flare of aggravation. She remembers thinking she wanted to get to Castle and she didn't have _time_ for this. She didn't have time to get shot.

She got shot.

She breathes in through her nose and fights back the sick feeling. She squeezes Castle's fingers. She tries to squeeze his fingers and realizes they're not there. She turns her head to find him. To ask him what time it is and what the hell he thinks he's doing, letting go of her hand. She turns her head because she can and she wants to see him.

She turns her head and he's not there.

The curtains clatter open and blinding light pours in from the hallway and _Ow_. She twitches away from it and _Ow._ Her head isn't _that_ much better. It's not that much better at all, and her neck might have separate bones but they don't quite work right and she hisses between her teeth.

It's Ray, of course. It's Ray, and she tries to ask him where Castle is.

It's not that her tongue doesn't work this time. It's not that her thoughts are muddled. They're not muddled at all. She wants to know why the hell Castle isn't here. She wants to know where he is.

It's that Ray won't listen. He putters around the bed, fiddling and rearranging and noting things down. He keeps up an endless stream of small talk. He asks her questions he's not really interested in the answer to and he won't let her get one in edgewise.

He holds up an impatient hand when she manages to get Castle's name out, and she thinks she might snap it off at the wrist. She thinks it would almost certainly be worth the pain.

But he's leaving by the time she makes her mind up to it. He's rolling his cart full of equipment in front of him and pulling the curtains open again, and it's a painful wall of light and sound.

She yells, then. She's not proud of it, but she yells.

Ray yells right back. It's low and monotone, but it's still yelling. He tells her to calm down. He calls her "Mrs. Beckett" and she loses it.

" _Detective,_ " she yells back. She yells it back and her mouth snaps shut because it's not her voice. It doesn't sound like her voice at all.

It sounds like Castle's and she can't make any sense of it until Ray rolls his eyes and pulls the curtain wide to reveal Castle, looking very much like he'd happily murder Ray where he stands.

She smiles at him, as wide as she can make it, and Castle smiles back, sappy and smitten and ridiculous.

Ray shakes his head and pushes past. "You see, _Detective_ Beckett? I told you your husband would be right back."

* * *

Ray seems to have taken his chair at some point. Presumably to promote maximum awkwardness.

That's pretty much mission accomplished because they've gone from grinning at each other like lovestruck idiots to this painful, unending silence and absolute avoidance of eye contact.

With no chair, there's absolutely nowhere for him to go. There's no stage business. There's no reason for him to approach her bedside. In fact, without the chair, he's not sure what's to keep them from standing there—well, _him_ from standing there and _her_ from lying there in the bed—until one or both of them dies of awkwardness.

For him, that might be sooner, rather than later. It might be for the best.

He wishes she'd yell. He wishes his doom would come and she would yell and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing passing himself off as her husband. But she's looking down at her hands and her chin is tucked into her chest. She looks . . . embarrassed. It's awful. It's _so_ awful and he can't think what to say and there's nowhere for him to go.

They look up at exactly the same time. They open their mouths at exactly the same time. They speak at exactly the same time.

"I called your dad . . ."

"What happened to your head?"

She lets out a frustrated laugh and his hand flies to the bandage. It's huge. It covers most of the side of his head, and it's wet and sticky from whatever the Nameless One put on it, and he must look like an absolute dork.

So they weren't _quite_ at maximal awkwardness a second ago, but now that's all taken care of. Now maximal awkwardness is out of the way.

They start again.

"It's nothing . . .

"My dad? That's . . ."

They stop again.

It reminds him of her across the street. The two of them heading for opposite corners and him doubling back. Going her way and eager to tease her about it. It reminds him of the terrible way his mind collected facts about the man before he shot her. He meets her eyes and he knows she's thinking the same thing.

She pats the bed next to her. "Don't be an idiot, Castle."

"Ray said I couldn't," he says, but he takes a step closer. "That I might flip the bed if I sat on the end."

"Fuck Ray," she says.

"Right in the ear," he deadpans back.

She gives him a wicked smile. She looks so much like herself that he laughs and takes another step closer and another step. It's dimmer here, away from the faint light seeping into through the gap in the curtain. All he can see is pale skin and the glimmer of her eyes and it's easier. It's . . . slightly less than maximally awkward.

She snags him by the hand when he's close enough, and then they're bickering. She wants him to climb in with her, and he's insistent that she's a mass of bruises and he'll hurt her.

She says she's not the one wandering around with a concussion and he blurts out that _his_ is only a Grade Two, and she gives him a total _gotcha_ look and they bicker about that.

She gets her way, of course. Even with the lesser of two concussions, he's no match for her.

She taunts him. She asks if he's afraid of Ray and she eventually gets her way. He kicks off his shoes and wedges himself along the bed railing. He slides his arm behind her and props all the pillows on the far side of her so that her weight rests against his chest.

She pulls his other arm around her and complains that he smells bad. He does. There's tar clinging to his jeans in patches and whatever the Nameless One used on his cut smells absolutely awful. But she pulls his arm around her and settles back into him and they're quiet a while.

She's quiet and he's worried she's in pain. He opens his mouth to ask. She pinches his hand before he can and mumbles that she's just tired. He's worried, but her breath is slow and even and her face rests in its familiar lines.

He keeps his palm heavy and constant as he runs it up and down her arm. He thinks she's asleep when she asks again. "What happened to your head, Castle?"

"Newspaper box attacked it," he says. It's hollow. He was going for light, but it's hollow. He doesn't want to talk about this.

She does. So that pretty much settles that. "How stupid were you, Castle?"

"Well I didn't get shot, so moderately?" He winces. "I didn't mean that _you_ . . . I didn't plan on it. I was trying to get to you. And I think . . . I just remember him trying to run by me."

"So you thought you'd tackle an armed suspect. On a street swarming with cops."

"He wasn't armed," he argues. He stops. He replays the scene in his mind. The details he has, and there aren't a lot. "I don't think . . . Esposito said he dropped the gun after the second shot."

He stops. It's not really the point, is it? Whether or not the guy was armed is not really the point.

She doesn't say anything. She's not quiet, she's just . . . doesn't say anything. He hears her not saying any number of things. He hopes they're done with this. He knows they're not.

"What do we know about him?" Her voice is tight. Controlled.

"Nothing," he says quickly.

"Castle . . ." She's bracing. She thinks it's Bracken. She thinks it's starting all over again and it's not. It's _not._ She's safe. She's as safe as she can be in a job where random people walk up to her in the street and shoot her because it's convenient.

"No, Kate, I mean really nothing." He skims his fingers through her hair and feathers his lips against the skin behind her ear. "There's nothing to know. Random. Just random."

"Random?" She presses a hand to her forehead. "How can it be random?"

He doesn't have an answer to that. Not one she doesn't already know.

He tells her what he does know. Low and matter of fact, he gives her the details, with a little indignant punctuation around the fact that Ray _absconded_ with his cell phone.

"But it's unlikely there's anything new anyway," he tells her. "It's probably over by now."

She's quiet. She asks a question here and there, but she seems to accept it. She seems willing enough to accept that it's just one of those things and he doesn't have an answer to that, either.

He just holds on to her as tightly as he can without hurting her. Hopefully without hurting her.

"You're not hurting me Castle." It's testy and exhausted and more than a little hopeless.

"Figures." He laughs into her hair.

"What figures?"

"That _you'd_ get cool psychic powers with your concussion and I'd just get . . . stinky antiseptic and manhandling from the Nameless One."

She laughs. It ends in a pained yelp. "Ok, now you're hurting me. Laughing hurts."

He backpedals. As much as one can backpedal in a very small hospital bed. Which isn't very much, especially when Kate Beckett is hanging on. And she's hanging on.

She's hanging on and more. He's worried about her. He wants her to rest, and she wants to talk. She keeps tugging them forward. She asks about the Nameless One and tries not to laugh.

He tries not to make her, but it's funny. It's _funny_ and they laugh together in the dark a while. They laugh together in the dark until she sounds well and truly tired.

He's not going to ask again. He won't ask if she wants to sleep. She's getting annoyed with him. He thinks about playing the guilt card. He thinks about saying _he's_ tired. That he needs to sleep. It's true enough but he'd rather not circle back to his underachieving Grade Two concussion and exactly how stupid he was.

He figures he'll just wait it out. That there has to be an end to her stubbornness in sight and he'll just wait it out. He tells her a few of Ray's origin stories. Sad ones. Quiet ones. He tries to lull her to sleep.

He thinks he has. It's been a long while since either of them has said anything and then there are four quiet words in the darkness.

"You called my dad."

Four quiet words and he's suddenly worried. _Really_ worried.

He's worried that he overstepped. It's not his place, after all. He's been playing at this new thing without her—playing husband—and he never stopped to think how it would look to her. He never stopped to think that it's not his place.

"I wouldn't have done that." She goes on and he feels like he's drowning.

He reaches for an apology. He claws for it, but it's like he's out of words.

"I'm not sorry."

Apparently not quite out of words. _Shit._

"I'm not." He says it again and wonders what the hell is wrong with him. He wonders and then he doesn't have time to wonder. He's definitely not out of words. "Someone needed to call him. Someone should call your dad when something like this happens."

"And you're someone?" Her voice is strange. It's measured and cautious and level and she doesn't sound tired at all.

It's everything he's not right now. He's frustrated and reckless. He's exhausted. This isn't how he wanted to say this. It's not how he wanted to say any of this, but he's still not out of words.

"Yes," he says and hates how defensive he sounds. "I'm someone. When you get shot and someone should tell your dad, I'm someone."

"And when I'm not?" There's a crack. She recovers instantly, but there's a crack in her voice. It feels important. Like something to hang on to. "When I'm not getting shot?"

"I'm still someone, then," he says fiercely. He's holding on to whatever it is, but he's tired and he's confused and he wishes this were easier. He wishes it were, but it's not. "I still want to be someone."

"Castle . . ." She lets out a sigh and it hurts. He feels her spine straighten and her arms pull in to her sides and he knows it hurts. She starts to say something and stops.

She says something else entirely and it's terrible. "We should probably sleep."

It's flat and hopeless and he tries to swallow down the panic that comes with it. He tries to hold on to the all important crack in her voice, but it's gone now.

"You've had a long day," she says and the crack is gone.

He laughs and it startles them both. It's a short, grating bark, but it's funny and he can't help it.

 _He's_ had a long day? She's the one who got fucking _shot_. She's the one who got up this morning for a routine dress inspection—the one day in her life that should be guaranteed 100% criminal free—and got _shot_.

"Castle . . ." The crack is still gone. She sounds annoyed now. She sounds wary. She sounds like she's retreating.

It clicks then. He sees how it looks to her. Like one more giant lurch forward in the wake of a near-death experience. That's what it looks like to her.

He sees it and it makes sense. The strangeness of her voice and the way she's tugging them forward into this. Why she didn't want to sleep on it and why she does now. It makes sense, or at least he thinks it does, and he decides that's good enough for two concussed people having this conversation in the dark.

Because they are. They're having this conversation and it's the worst possible time and place. It's on the heels of a near-death experience and none of that is what this is about. Because they had a _date_ to have this conversation and she got shot and shit happens.

To them, shit happens, and it's going to _keep_ happening, and they are having this conversation now. Even if she passes out in the middle of it or he does, they're _having_ it.

"Kate. Can you . . .?" He wriggles a little higher in the bed. She's still stuck on the laugh. She's still wary. She's still retreating.

He squeezes her fingers hard. It's the only thing he can think to do. He needs her to move and he wants her to stay close and it's the only part of her he can keep hold of without hurting her.

"Kate." He brushes his lips over her ear. He thinks that's ok. That seems ok. "Kate I need . . . I just need . . . don't . . . don't go anywhere."

She grumbles that she _can't_ go anywhere, but she lets him manage her. He thinks she must be a little afraid. She must suspect he's lost it or that his Grade Two concussion is finally getting the better of him, because she grumbles, but she doesn't fight him. She lets him ease her against the pillows and make sure of her before he goes digging in his pocket.

His fingers dig close around the bubble and his heart is pounding like crazy. This seemed like the perfect idea two seconds ago, but now he sees it for what it is. He sees that it's insane. He has a concussion—two concussions—a rubbery gum ball machine ring and the certainty that he loves thinking of her as his wife and what is he supposed to do with that?

His heart pounds and he doesn't have an answer.

His heart pounds he doesn't know what he can do other than something stupid.

It's calming. The inevitability is oddly calming and that should probably worry him. It might worry him some other time, but right now, it's calming.

His heart slows down and he pulls her gently to him. He settles her back against him and curls his arm around her waist. He sets the bubble in her lap and covers it with his hand.

"You said you'd go out with me tonight," he says. He lets the words linger in her ear. He lets his cheek rest just against her skin and he feels her smile. She doesn't want to, but she smiles. He goes with it. "We had a date."

"If this is about me standing you up . . ." She's going for teasing. She thinks that's what he's doing and she's trying to meet him half way.

She's trying and he loves her.

"No," he turns his cheek toward hers and brushes an experimental kiss a little below her ear. "No. Just sorry we missed it. It was going to be good. Flowers and everything."

"Flowers, huh?"

"Flower, actually . . . Oh." He trails off. "It's . . . that's probably at the bottom of the giant hole in front of the precinct."

"Well," she says dryly. "There's a metaphor."

"No." He nips at her earlobe for that. "Not a metaphor. Stop that."

"Fine. Not a metaphor." She's thinking now. He can practically hear it. She's trying to figure him out. She won't though. This is the kind of stupid she'll never figure out. "So . . . we take a raincheck on this date?"

"I think we should still have it." He pulls his hand back. He taps the top of the bubble once. "For you."

She tries to look back at him. She twists her neck to give him one of her patented WTF? looks, but he kisses her cheek and nudges her gaze back down.

She picks up the bubble and gives it an experimental shake. The ring thuds around inside. She shakes it again and nods like she's figured something out.

He wonders what, but he can't wait for her to tell him. His heart is pounding again. He's excited now. There's no going back and he's excited.

"Beckett," he says impatiently.

He reaches for the bubble, but she pulls it away.

"Is it mine or not?" she snaps.

"Yours." He kisses her neck. Her ear. Her jaw. "Yours."

"Then you wait."

"Yes." He laughs, and it might be the tiniest bit hysterical. "I'll wait as long as it takes."

She finally pops the bubble in half and tips the ring out on to her palm. She's the kind of speechless he's only seen once or twice and he wishes he could see her face better. It would be perfect if he could see her face, but it's pretty damned perfect with her cheek against his and the tiny sounds of consternation she's making.

"Did you . . ." she starts and breaks off. She tries to look back at him, but it's not really doable. She stares down at the ring. "Did you win this at skeeball?"

"Oh! I wish!" He laughs again and it's definitely a little hysterical this time. A little hysterical and a lot relieved. No going back. "Nothing as manly as skeeball. Just four hard-earned quarters in the florist's gum ball machine."

"Gum ball machine," she repeats. She's lost.

It occurs to him that he's not explaining himself very well and she's completely lost. He loves it a little bit. It's mean. She has a concussion. But he loves that she's trying to figure it out, and he loves that it's stupid enough that she can't.

" _Before_ you got shot," he tells her like it's a hint. "We had a date. We were supposed to talk. And I got you flowers and a ring _before_ you got shot."

"A ring." She goes still. It doesn't seem to have occurred to her that it's a ring. It's ring from a gum ball machine, but a ring nonetheless and she goes still. "Castle. I . . . what?"

_What?_

The question pulls him up short.

_What?_

His mind is a blank. For three terrible seconds his mind is a blank and then the words come.

"I don't want this to end. Ever." He starts with that and he's satisfied. It's the truest thing and a good beginning. "I love you and I can't see my life from here without you in it."

That's true, too. It's satisfying and a kind of ease settles over him at saying the words and knowing she hears them. She hears them and he feels the heat of her skin and the way her pulse jumps and he wishes he could stay in this moment for a while, but there's more. There's more, and there's no going back now.

"I knew that this morning. I knew that when I asked you to go out with me tonight. And I knew that when you got shot and when I knew you were ok."

"So you bought me a ring from a gum ball machine." She sounds baffled. She's definitely stuck on the ring, but she sounds baffled, rather than aghast or annoyed or any of a number of other things she might be, and he takes it as a hopeful sign.

"Better safe than sorry, right?" He reaches for her left hand. He sweeps his thumb over her knuckles, lingering over her bare fourth finger. "Kate, I'm not asking . . . anything. I don't know what you _want_ me to ask. Or what you _don't_."

"What do you want?" she asks quietly, and he's not expecting it.

He should have. Of course he should have, but he stumbles a second time and some of the giddiness leaves him. It's probably for the best, but he misses it. He misses the giddy certainty that it's well past time he do something stupid.

"I don't want this to end," he says slowly. He comes back to that. The truest thing. "It's not . . . it's less important to me how we do that. What that means."

"Less important," she echoes, and it's another question. Another one he should have been ready for.

"I want to marry you." He says it and it's true, so he guesses he was ready for that one. He was all along and the only thing he can do is tell her and see where it takes them. He says it again, because he might as well. "I want to be married to you."

"Did you know that . . . before?"

"Before?" There's something in her voice he doesn't quite recognize. He doesn't know what she's asking.

"Before you started telling anyone who would listen that I'm your _wife_."

She's teasing him. His heart comes to a full and complete stop, then thankfully starts again. She's _teasing_ him.

He buries his face against her neck. "You're not a nice person, Kate Beckett. Did you know that?"

"I think that's a question you should be asking _yourself,_ Castle." She holds the ring up. She twists it in the dim glow. "It seems like something you should know about the person you want to marry."

He wants to leave it like this. Part of him wants to leave it with her fingers folding around the silly ring and her cheek pressed against his. He wants to fall asleep together, further along than they were. Still in motion, even if they're wandering.

But he does something stupid instead.

He unfolds her fingers and waits for the ring to drop into his palm. He eases her forward and shifts his other arm from her shoulders to her waist. He slides her left hand into his.

"Kate, I mean it." He fiddles with the ring in his right palm. "I want to marry you, but it's not . . . it doesn't have to be soon. It' doesn't have to be ever . . . If it's not what you want, then however this doesn't end . . . I can live with however we make that happen."

She nods. She spreads her fingers like she's picturing it. She turns their hands over so his is on top, like she's picturing that, too. His ring and hers and he can't resist. He flips their hands over and slides the ring on her fourth finger.

It fits. It's giant and ugly and she can hardly bend that finger at the knuckle, but it fits exactly and she gives a delighted little laugh.

She holds it up for him to admire and he thinks it's enough.

But she holds it up for him to admire and words come with it.

"Me too. I think."

He goes still and the words come again. Louder this time and more of them.

"I want to marry you, too. Not . . . right away. I don't think right away?"

"Doesn't have to be, Kate," he whispers. "We can wander a while."

  



End file.
